Nothing But Trouble
by LadyNRA
Summary: Burt has a tough rescue on his hands and El Blanco is making his task difficult. Set during the series with series characters.
1. Chapter 1

FAuthor/Pseudonym: LadyNRA

Fandom: Tremors – The Series

TEAM: Burt Gummer & the rest of the group

RATING: Bordering on PG-13

ARCHIVE: Lemme know if that's what you want to do

SUMMARY: Burt has a tough rescue on his hands and El Blanco is making his task difficult.

DISCLAIMER: Thanks to Universal Studios and Stampede Entertainment, as well as the SciFi Channel for the creation of various aspects of Tremors. They own the characters, not me. To coin a phrase from a fellow fanfic writer, "I'm just playing with 'em, and I'm not making money off of 'em, so there's no need to sic the litigators on me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was my first Tremors: The Series story, written around 2003. Thanks to my beta reader Shadoe. Any mistakes including typos etc here are solely mine.

NOTHING BUT TROUBLE

by LadyNRA

Red wings sliced through the warm, dry air, caught a thermal and with a small bump gained additional altitude. She was a thing of beauty, her new owner had assured his wife. Worth every penny. Sleek, versatile, and definitely on the endangered list.

With expert hands, the fiftyish man grasped the yoke in strong hands, caressing it with one thumb absent-mindedly, much as he had been for the last 2 hours since their last take off. With pride, he glanced at the blurred silver rotation of the propellers, and pondered the route ahead. Not for first time, he wondered if he'd made a sound choice taking this path across the more desolate parts of the southwest.

Listening to the drone of the twin radial Wasp engines, he idly reached up to make some adjustments to the air/fuel mixture and smiled contentedly.

When he'd found the old Grumman Goose moored to a rotting deck off one of the Florida Keys, he'd fallen in love. An avid admiring of old aircraft, the Goose had been one of those planes he'd dreamed about owning but knew it was nothing but a fantasy never to be realized. Then he and his wife had happened on the old plane, falling into disrepair when it's elderly pilot had closed down a tour business but for reasons only known to him, had refused to sell it to anyone else. There had been buyers, he was told, since a few other air service companies in the areas took tourists around in those seaplanes still serviceable.

He still didn't know what had convinced the old man to sell. Maybe it was the look, not just of yearning, but of sheer love for the old 'girl' that had convinced the elderly man that his baby would be in good hands. The deal had been made. It hadn't been easy on the new owner. Like a potential buyer ogling the car of his dreams, he'd apparently displayed his desire too openly, and the old man's rheumy eyes hadn't missed such an unveiled expression. Consequently, he'd walked away richer, and the new owner, though chagrined at the cost, flew away a whole lot happier.

It had taken Gregory Barron several weeks to fix her up enough to make her serviceable. His wife, Peggy, had patiently waited out this phase, while her husband alternately bestowed great affection up on her for her sacrifice while badgering, cajoling, and even begging his employer clear across the country to give him 'just a little more time'.

If was for that reason that Barron had not opted to take a longer route back to the Seattle area.

He'd convinced his family that one of the beautiful features of the Goose was her versatility. "She is what they refer to as amphibious", he'd explained to his eldest son, a soon-to-be high school senior. The boy was clearly not overly impressed by his father's newest toy.

"So what," he'd shrugged, both verbally and physically. Tossing his shoulder length wavy hair back from his face, he had sighed, knowing the answer would come despite his disinterest.

Trying to stir up his son's enthusiasm, he'd extolled, "Come on, JD! This old girl is a treasure. Last of a dying breed. Yeah, they make 'em newer and faster now, but look how long she has lasted."

When the boy didn't say anything further, he'd patiently explained. "They say it's an amphibious aircraft because she can land on water or land."

Still no response.

That had been the deciding factor. They could take a land route, come down in the various lakes along the way or avail themselves of any number of small or larger runways.

The old seaplane cutting through the clear, cerulean skies appeared to hang incongruously over the dusty brown desert dirt and scrub brush leading into the valley already coming into view. Slow and steady, she flew on, her crimson wings wagging gently side to side as they caught errant breezes. Barron, an experienced pilot of small planes, expertly made the necessary corrections.

A sudden updraft of heated air caught them by surprise, causing the woman dozing in the copilots chair to jerk awake. He patted her arm, marveling at the satin smoothness of it, despite the fact that years were already given his companion of 25 years a pleasing matronly appearance. The woman's blue eyes smiled back though she said nothing.

He glanced toward the cabin where he caught sight of his son, headphones already growing from his temples, gazing into 'nothing.' His head rocked slightly to the rhythm but he paid his father no mind. Behind him Ginny Shepard was staring at the window, seemingly mesmerized by the endless browns and grays of the land as it passed beneath them. Elbow resting on an armrest, her chin balanced on an upturned palm, she unconsciously sighed at the rare patches of greenery, appreciating the break in monotony of the otherwise barren terrain. Next to her, though Greg couldn't see him, was Marty Shepard; however, Greg didn't need to know what was occupying his friend's time. The snores wafting forward were doing a splendid job of battling the loud hum of the Goose's engines.

One of those engines burped lazily, and Greg unconsciously made another adjustment to the mixture. Fourth time in ten minutes, he guessed. Though not too concerned, he didn't like the unknowns, and this was enough to heighten his awareness of the plane's functions. Yet another stutter from the port engine made the hands grip the yoke grip harder.

His wife watched the reaction of her beloved's hands and felt her spine tighten. "Something wrong?" she queried succinctly, trying not to sound too worried.

"Don't think so, sweetheart. I replaced the plugs but who knows, maybe they fouled up. Garbage in the fuel tanks, sludge from sitting there too long, who knows. I'll put down in the next airport and see if we can't get a mechanic to take a good long look."

"Sounds fine by me. I'd like to stretch my legs anyway."

Just then, the burp turned into a loud belch and the little plane bucked at the insult. Seemingly buffeted by invisible hands, she groaned, and the port engine belched louder, accompanied by a plume of dark smoke that billowed out of the engine cowling.

Muttering an uncharacteristic curse, Greg cut the fuel supply to the already faltering propellers. He feathered them, to reduce wind drag, and hit the control to release the fire extinguisher.

"Dad?" His son called, poking his head between them.

"Go back and belt in," he ordered his son. The boy frowned and parted lips as if to reply then thought better of it. He heard a muttered conversation between Ginny and Marty.

He hastily made some adjustments to give the engines the necessary power without overtaxing them, then glanced back.

To allay their concerns, he called, "Listen guys, the blessing of a double engine plane in this case is that we still have one sound engine left. We won't be winning any races, but she'll be able to make it in okay this way."

As if intentionally trying to make a liar out of him, the starboard engine gave a couple of burps, some other colorfully rude noises, and gave up the ghost just like its twin. Beside him, his wife moaned in terror but thankfully, didn't panic.

Quickly, Barron lowered the landing gear, so that the wheels dropped down to a level lower than the pontoons. There was still some hope. She still had some maneuverability in the hands of a seasoned pilot, and if luck was with them, he would be able to put them down.

More updrafts buffeted them, and he realized they were entering the large valley, the slopes dropping and widening. Getting on the radio, he called out a mayday, but got little more than static. Surprised and dismayed, he hollered at his wife to find the last batch of maps they'd picked up on their last stop. She hurriedly located the flight map needed, and ripped it open. It showed an airport closer to a little 'city' named Bixby, but they'd never make it that far, not by a long shot. In fact, he was wondering if betting against himself might now have been a better investment at the moment, just as the plane lost a great deal of altitude.

"If you're not buckled in, do it now!" he barked at his passengers. His wife sat rigid, only her eyes flickering with raw fear. The flight maps lay on her lap still open but beginning to slip down. Trying to get her mind off what lay ahead, he yelled, "What do the regular road maps say is ahead."

As if awaking from a dream, she gazed glassy-eyed at them. "Looks like…Perfection Valley, Nevada,"

"Perfection, my foot," he muttered, fighting to keep the wings level while looking for a safe place to put down, post haste. Yet, as a little voice, deep in his head, was wondering where he'd heard that name before, but he ran out of time. "Hang on" he yelled, "Like it or not we're landing…now!"

The ancient seaplane valiantly tried to remain airborne but the effort was futile. The dry desert air closer to the ground gave no support and she was already too low to continue taking brief advantage of the thermals.

To Greg Barron's horror, he realized the lay of the land was deceiving. It wasn't nearly as level as he'd first assumed, at least not in the spot before them. Rutted hills and uneven ground was broken by boulders liberally strewn around them. Some of those boulders stretched rocky arms skyward as it trying to pluck them out of whatever little bit of sky was left to the hapless travelers. But what horrified Barron more was the fast approaching site of high tension lines just ahead. This section of lines bisected the valley, far off any roads he could make out, and, in a moment of irrationality, wondered who made use of the power so far from civilization.

Straining muscles pulled back on the yoke, trying to get just that tiny bit of air under his wings, anything to help them clear the lines. But another gust of wind caught his pride and joy, and she yawed left suddenly, heading toward one gleaming silver high-T tower.

Peggy shrieked, surrendering to the terror of the moment. She hurled a silent prayer skyward, just as the still smoking port wing smashed into the tower. As the wing was ripped loose, the remaining fuel in the wing's tank erupted into a blistering ball of flame and rolling inky smoke.

The plane lurched on, almost rolling nose first into the ground, but she managed to upright herself as if desperately trying to protect the man who had lovingly cared for her over the past few weeks. It was a valiant effort but destined to fail. Everyone knew it. The Goose did a barrel roll, came upright, and nearly touched down. One rock outcropping tore off the starboard pontoon and landing gear. The nose dug into the soil raising a furrow of dust and dirt. The remaining wing was torn free, spraying airplane fuel over the surrounding dry shrubs and uneven ground. The little plane flipped stern over stem. In the course of her somersault, she hit a jagged solitary boulder and the fuselage ripped in half. Unknown to her passengers, she continued her forward momentum another eight feet.

When the dust finally settled ten minutes later, there was no sound aside from a faint echo from off the walls of the distant hillside and the crackle of burning airplane parts and brown grasses.

Below the surface, within his self-made tunnel, El Blanco stirred. His primitive senses were slowly coming to life after a two day somnolent period spent resting and digesting his latest meal, two coyotes, several hapless bunnies, a burro, and a wild goat that had long ago found a hole in a fence and wandered off. The goat had previously managed to avoid the enormous albino worm but the quadruped's number had suddenly come up. Now, it was nothing but a pile of liquefied nutrients in El Blanco's gut, and the giant worm's dormancy was fading. But not so much that he was ready to hunt once again.

The great creature, descended from a Precambrian life form that had existed long before dinosaurs, let the minute tremblings of tiny mammals pass by undisturbed. Too small to be attractive to his simple senses. Just as he was about to return to what passed for sleep, the ground surrounding his leathery body shook violently. The graboid became instantly alert. Like a shark, El Blanco had lines running the length of his body that fed a constant stream of information back to his primitive brain. Those sensors covered most of El Blanco's tough upper skin as well as along his sides. They were screaming now, alerting the huge worm-like creature that a potential and very large meal could be nearby. As he roused himself, the faint glimmering of hunger grew exponentially with each passing minute. By the time the graboid grew close to that which had attracted him, the gnawing in his belly flared into a ravenous hunger.

By the time El Blanco was within a mile of the site, he was moving at a prodigious pace, burrowing at a speed almost as fast as a man could run. Unfortunately, the vibrations that had fanned out in all directions had ceased. There was no motion at all aside from more tiny animals. Confused, at least as much as the creature could feel confusion, the graboid halted. And waited. Whatever had made such a ruckus was bound to get moving again, and once it did, the hunger would be sated.

Deep within the semi-darkness of his own subterranean dwelling, Burt Gummer lay sprawled across the plain sheets of his bed. In repose, he looked a bit younger than his 48 years, his face almost serene, as his breath gently passed between slightly parted lips. Suddenly, his mouth pulled into a taut line, and his breathe came out in a series of ragged gasps.

Burt shifted unconsciously, unaware of the growing beads of sweat that began to dot his skin.

They were starting again, the dreams, as they often did, but lately something had changed. He'd known his night time enemies when they had first intruded on his sleeping moments, and had learned to cope with the ever increasing frequency of his nightmares. Since the "start" of the graboid invasion, he'd often been plagued by them, and truth be told, he suspected everyone in the vicinity of Perfection didn't sleep soundly for long. It came with the territory. You live near monsters and you can't help but have them creep into your night time thoughts as well. But this dream was different, though Gummer was too far 'out of it' to realize this. This creature, hiding in the shadows, was faceless, formless, relentless, and impervious to anything Burt's all-to-vivid imagination could throw at it. The survivalist's heart started to pound, and he found himself frantically grasping for weapons he no longer had. Taking flight was rarely an option but at that moment it was preferable than facing whatever horror was stalking him, looming ever closer, it's hot, fetid breath, assailing his nostrils as he gulped for the air necessary to give his long legs flight.

Claws, razor sharp grazed his skin, stopping his forward momentum, and he heard the blizzard-like rush of stale air as it spread its jaws for the kill.

With a barely stifled howl of terror, Gummer bolted upright in his barracks-style bed, and shivered at the memory that still clawed at him, trying to drag him back down into the nightmare. Lungs heaving, heart trying to force its way out of his throat, he pulled in several lungfuls of air and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As his bare feet hit the floor, he used one free hand to wipe the dampness from his skin. With some effort, he brought his breathing under control, and waited for the painful pounding within his rib cage to quiet.

"This was the worst one yet!" he muttered to himself with a weary shake of his head. "Damn MixMaster!" He added, knowing that it was unknown monsters bourn from the pit of a concrete hell far below the mountain that worried him the most. Now MixMaster, the gene splicing concoction was loose on the valley, and nothing was certain anymore.

Groaning from the ache of muscles that didn't seem rested at all, he grimaced at the soaked "Burt Gummer Survival School" t-shirt that clung to his lean body. "The dreams," he thought once more, but slowly became aware that the air around him was warm… uncomfortably so. As he straightened up, he looked briefly at the battery backup LED clock, whose front panel glared a harsh red set of numbers. 07:30.

Sighing, Burt turned to glance through the gloom at the empty bed, and for the first time in many years, wished Heather was still with him. At least, then, when the dreams had hit, he could turn to her, pull her silky softness into his arms. She would cradle his head in the hollow of her neck and shoulder, make shushing sounds like a parent comforting a child caught in the grip of night terrors, and whisper reminders that none of it was real. Now, he didn't even have that. Heather was long gone, married to someone else. He was still…alone. And all this was definitely real. Living nightmares included.

It was then that his head cleared fully, and he realized several things almost simultaneously. The low wattage fluorescent bulb he kept on the most distant workbench, just to provide enough light to keep him from crashing into anything in the darkness, was no longer lit, and the amber emergency light nearest the bunker's entrance was sending forth its dull orange glow, barely illuminating the doorway. The hum of his small auxiliary gasoline-powered back up generator broke though the pulsing in his ears. No wonder only the amber light and the glow of screens from a few early warning systems were working. Something had cut the power to his compound.

A steadily growing fear for his friends in the tiny town of Perfection motivated him to get to his feet. By habit, he immediately slipped his feet into the hard-soled suede moccasin slippers carefully placed beside the bed every night in the event he needed to make a dash for the safe room. Peeling off the sweat soaked t-shirt, he hurled it angrily into a pile with several other articles of clothing that needed washing.

Dressed in nothing more than military issue skivvies and his slippers, he walked over to a circuit breaker box. Next to the panel was a key switch. Taking down the key, threw inserted it in the lock, and gave it a turn. The electric-start main generator rumbled to life. In addition to lighting and monitors, a secondary set of ventilation fans kicked in drawing out the musty odor of perspiration and buried concrete. He jotted down a mental note to hook up all the fans to his backup systems because, clearly, the set up he had now wasn't working at optimum efficiency. Finally, he shut the auto-start auxiliary system down.

After hastily dressing in clean clothing and tightly lacing his military issue boots, something he could easily accomplish in a matter of two or three minutes, he went to his periscope, complete with the recently installed blueblocker lens, and took a careful look around. A full 360 degree turn yielding nothing near the compound, and the only thing out of the ordinary was a vague dark smudge of what appeared to be smoke far in the distance, east of his compound.

Moving to his work bench, he looked at his seismograph equipment. The older unit basically recorded earth tremors, and had no warning bells or whistles but was nevertheless quite serviceable. Right before his eyes was the unmistakable close sharp spikes of fairly sizable, yet brief, shaking of the earth. Reasonably insulated as he was, he hadn't felt it, but the machine didn't lie. Something had disturbed the ground…but no so close that his wrist seismo had gone off. That only blared its warning when El Blanco was plowing through the ground within close proximity to the person wearing the alarm.

Taking a sip of water from his canteen, and frowning slightly at the warm brackish taste, he reached for his CB 'walkie' and spoke clearly into mic.

"Jodi? Nancy? What's going on?"

The gentle voice of Nancy Sterngood was the first to break through the soft hiss of the radio. "Concerning what?" Sighing with consternation, Burt adjusted the squelch just to keep him busy, and waited. No amount of heckling was going to make her cough up information any quicker, so with practiced patience, he gave her the opportunity to volunteer additional information. When none was forthcoming within a reasonable period of time, which for him was about 15 seconds, he again pressed the talk button.

"Your power out?"

"Yes, yours?" Her voice was calm, serene, characteristic of her nature, except when she was ticked off at him for something, which, it seemed, was a good part of the time.

"Affirmative, however, my backup generator is up and running."

"Naturally," Jodi Chang, owner of Walter Chang's Market, cut in. Burt let it go. He could 'hear' her smile even though he couldn't see it.

Taking another quick swig from the canteen, he then asked, "Where's Tyler?"

Again Jodi's broke though the low static. "I don't know. Rosalita occasionally forgets to turn her radio on but Tyler's pretty good about such things."

"Agreed," he interjected, and before he could get in another word, her heard Jodi say, "He's here now. Said he dropped the radio. He thinks he might have damaged it. Can you take a look at it later?"

Burt grunted and shook his head. So much to do and so little time. "Listen, I've got something I want to investigate. Jodi, you try to reach someone at the power company over in Bixby and see if they have a problem there or if it's local. Tyler, you sit tight while I do a reconnaissance of the territory. I'll call if I need back up."

"Roger that, Burt," Tyler's gentle masculine voice drawled through the radio. "If you need me, holler!"

"Not likely," Gummer replied, half smiling smugly to himself.

"What?" Nancy chimed in. "You hollering, or you needing help?"

Burt's answer was succinct. "Both!"

After putting the radio in a knap sack, Gummer dumped the water from his canteen, and replenished it from a fresh plastic bottle. Then, throwing his canteen, binoculars, and some MRE's in it, he looked over his gun collection, already ruminating on what would suit his particular needs on this occasion. He strapped on one pistol and his hunting knife, one on each upper thigh, tightened the straps to both in place, threw some extra previously loaded magazines in his vest pockets, and drew down the HK -93A3 rifle. He wasn't anticipating any problems from El Blanco that a couple of his modified flash-bang grenades couldn't handle but being prepared was always a smart move. Plus, there was his 'secret weapon stashed on board his truck that would, hopefully, give the lumbering worm a bit of a painful surprise.

With another cautious glance through the periscope, he then opened the bunker door, and took a look off in the distance where could barely discern the odd smudge in the sky. Someone not looking for it would never have noted its existence. "Well, you definitely didn't cause the power problem, otherwise I'd still have electric." he reasoned aloud. With electric supplies coming from Bixby, only line problems southwest of his compound would have killed the power. Something may have caught fire to the northeast. And he wanted to know what.

Hopping in his reworked Chevy open cab truck, he tossed his sack, his vest with the grenades, and his gloves on the passenger seat. As an after thought, he pulled the canteen and binoculars free of the sack, and rested them within easy reach.

Opened the gate of his compound, Burt drove his pickup through the opened posts, then paused long enough to close up the compound. Next, he rechecked his wrist seismo for proper functioning. Last, but certainly not least, he slipped on his dark aviator sunglasses before turning toward his destination.

Slowly, and then with increasing speed, the big truck lumbered up the road for several miles before veering off into unmarked terrain. The road was bumpy and the truck hung up in some places, but Burt expertly guided it through the ruts and gullies, around boulders, and up gently sloping hills. Eventually, he passed one large metallic tower and saw the overload light atop it glowing white. That meant one thing. Something had caused the switch to trip, a system designed to keep the nearest transformer from blowing and spewing toxic chemicals all over the ground. Before the graboids had showed up, the light had made locating the problem that much quicker. Now, however, they didn't come around unless they got extreme hazard pay for it.

Rough terrain forced a slight detour, but he got back on track quickly.

The sun's heat was already building to a nearly uncomfortably level by the time the survivalist was able to get a good look at the waning pillar of smoke. Black, for sure. Petroleum products, fuel oils, tar, and the like, burned that color. Not a good sign. He felt a trickle of sweat cross his cheek, and he swiped at in irritation. It wasn't too much longer before he got close enough to view the wreckage through his binoculars. Aircraft, he saw, one boldly crimson wing nearly upright, leaning against a boulder. This one was going to be messy, he could feel it.

Suppressing an unexpected shudder, he plunged on as the terrain became slightly more irregular. Pulling the canteen out of the bag, he took a swallow, wiped the back of his lips with one leather-gloved hand, and, after setting the canteen back on the seat, once more set the binoculars in front of his eyes. "Definitely not good," he again concluded dryly.

Up ahead he could see the damaged electric tower, the short ends of the dangling wires swaying in the slight breeze. A small copse of dry brush had lit up nearby commingling grayish brown plumes with pitch black smoke but already that was dying down, the wind dispersing it before it got up high enough for anyone in Perfection was likely to see it.

Nearby, a wash, dry now that the spring rains had faded into memory, paralleled the power lines for a way, then angled toward the collection of boulders precariously supporting the ruptured aircraft. Carefully, he maneuvered his truck down the side of the wash, confident that this was the easiest, quickest route over the terrain. The truck took the hill at an angle, fat tires biting deep into the parched soil. It slid slightly, then caught again. Burt guided it carefully, at a slight angle to the hill, preferring to keep from running grill first into the wide ditch.

At that exact moment, Gummer's wrist seismo screamed out its warning. "No, No! Not now!" He angrily howled at the approaching graboid, though the thought never left his lips. He pondered the alternatives. Silence the engine versus trying to drive out of immediate vicinity. Grab for his pistol? All but useless against the underground creature.

The tires slipped, loudly, but bit more firmly a second later. More noise to attract the graboid. Burt's hand rocketed toward the key in the ignition. Running was no longer an option. El Blanco was too close. He craned his neck trying to see if he could detect the tell-tale sign of graboid movement, the shifting of the dirt above its enormous body.

He saw it alright. About 10 feet away…and suddenly the graboid, in all its hulking glory, burst through the side of the gully, right into the transfer case beneath his truck's chassis. In less than a heartbeat, the four wheel drive vehicle flipped over to its side, rolled over once, then again, and spun 180 degrees, before coming to rest, belly up, roll bar sinking into the soft dirt of the wash.

El Blanco, roaring its confusion and fright at being unexpected exposed to the air, plunged snout first into the ground and almost immediately disappeared from sight. The graboid didn't know what had happened, didn't know what he had collided against, but the giant worm was once again sensing movement back from where he had just come. Hunger growing by the minute, he burrowed back toward his original prey.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Burt? Burt! Somethin's wrong, I'm telling you. This isn't like him at all!" Tyler said through gritted teeth. The day had started out strange and was getting weirder by the minute. "He'd never turn off the radio."

Rosalita Sanchez, leaning against the counter top, tanned perfect skin glowing in the filtered sunlight inside Chang's store, nodded and said to no one in particular. "He's right you know. Either something happened to the radio or something happened to Burt. And I'm hoping that you-know-what isn't the problem."

Tyler Reed sighed and ran strong fingers through his thick dark hair. He was dressed casually in jeans in a t-shirt, cowboy boots, and despite his history, looked every bit the rancher. His eyes caught Jodi's and she read the concern in them. Do we go after him or not?"

"No question," Tyler added with a tone of finality. "The problem is where do I go. Burt didn't tell us which way he was heading. It could take hours to track him down if we can't reach him by radio." As if reminded of his own broken walkie talkie, he paused long enough to borrow one from a box near the counter. With a not so gentle nudge to the nearest chair leg, he strode toward the door.

"Follow the power lines," Jodi suggested gently to the departing figure of the town's newest resident.

Tyler half turned and gave her a thumbs up. There were miles of lines running through the area. Some paralleled the highways. Other's bisected it, sending current to more distant towns. This was going to take a while, he thought, as he climbed in his own truck, the one bearing the markings, "Desert Jack's Graboid Adventures." With wheels churning up gravel and dust, he plunged down the main road as fast as the truck would take him.

Steam began to waft up through the settling dust. The soft hiss of leaking fluids dripping onto hot engine parts and then onto the porous ground was too inconsequential for the giant worm to bother with. El Blanco was gone. At least for the moment. But the truck remained, its dusty dented belly facing toward the cloudless sky, one large knobby tire still turning lazily. A low blanket of oily haze surrounded the wreck. Its cloying odor was unpleasant but the figure slumped in the seat belt harness remained unaware of it.

Absolute darkness began to roll away like a receding tide. As consciousness returned, a deeper part of the man's mind tried to drag him back into the darkness. Fighting back, albeit half-heartedly, he allowed his senses to slowly survey the situation. The first thing he was aware of, painfully so, was the frightful pounding of his head. Each beat of his heart seemed to be magnified deep within his skull. The pain was unrelenting, screaming at him to wake up and yet, conversely, to plunge him back into the abyss.

With enormous effort, he tried to open his eyes, only to discover the left eyelid was being uncooperative. The sight that greeting his other eye made him dizzy. His world seemed wrong, topsy turvy, making him vaguely nauseous. Then, as the mental fog dissipated a bit, he realized that he wasn't hallucinating at all, nor were his eye playing tricks on him, the world was indeed upside down. And he was hanging, head down, still suspended in his seat belt and shoulder harness. Coarse brown gravel lay but a few inches from the crown of his bare skull, the short, sparse, wisps of hair atop his head, now slick with moisture, tracing delicate red lines in the sand.

"This is just wonderful," he muttered to know one in particular. Burt flinched. The mere sound of his voice made the pulsing tear deeper into his head.

Carefully, he moved his legs, both of which were resting against the overturned dashboard. Then, with deliberate care, he brought his right arm down to the dirt and tried to push up from the sand slightly. There was some room to maneuver in the vehicle's cab. The roll bar had done its job, at least to some extent. He was alive, for the moment, and in his book that was a victory in itself. El Blanco could have easily returned and had him for lunch, and in his helpless state, he would never have known what happened. The thought of him becoming graboid chow should the giant worm change his mind spurred Burt to action. Tensing his legs against the underside of the steering column, he placed his left hand on the ground, planning on using his free hand to unlatch his seat belt.

The task came to a screaming halt, literally. A loud, shocked, howl of pain ripped from Burt's dry parched throat, and he hastily withdrew the offending appendage. Fixing his glazed eye upon the limb, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt it was broken. The wrist was hugely swollen, already turning purple and dark blue. Its shape was wrong, bulging upward when it should have been straight, and was obviously quite useless. To add insult to injury, the wrist seismo was gone, presumably ripped off by whatever had impacted his arm.

With a ragged inhalation of warm desert air, Burt tried to pull his body sideways, tucking his chin against his left shoulder. Then, praying his legs wouldn't slip from their position, he depressed the seat belt release button and prepared to drop. Nothing happened. He tried again. With time being of the essence, he pulled his razor sharp Bowie knife from its sheath and with a deft motion of his right wrist, he cut into the belt. It didn't shear through on the first attempt or the second, but eventually, the material parted, and he dropped down.

Gummer's upper thighs, slammed hard onto the underside of the steering wheel, but held him there long enough for him to drop the knife and get his palm against the ground. Still protecting his head, he managed to roll, panting from pain and exertion, onto his side. As the acrid dust was drawn deep within into straining lungs, he coughed, then tried to stifle the next one, concerned that El Blanco, sensing all the motion, would attack without warning from beneath. The roll cage was open, and therefore, once flipped, there was nothing between him and the graboids fanged mouth tentacles aside from a few inches of dirt. The thought sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

The survivalist lay motionless for countless minutes, waiting for the shrieking pain in his skull to cease. It did so, gradually, but that was quickly replaced with a return of sensation from other parts of his battered body, not the least of which was his broken wrist. Hugging it as tight to his body as he could stand, Burt wriggled toward the opening where his driver's 'window' would have been. As his head poked out from beneath the chassis, he quickly scanned the area. No obvious signs of the graboid. That much was in his favor, if nothing else. Lying on his side, good hand outstretched, he pulled himself out of the truck and once more paused to rest. Even the simplest of movements seemed to tax what was left of his depleted strength.

The harsh glare of the sun beat down on him, causing him to squint. It did nothing to help the headache either. Pushing himself into a sitting position was more of a chore than he expected, and he flopped back against the door of his truck, nearly banging the back of his head in the process. Not far away, he caught sight of his Rayban aviator sunglasses and the yellowed Atlanta Hawks baseball cap, but he didn't have the energy to retrieve them.

Without being aware of it, both eyes closed. He was drowsy. Too drowsy. Another bad sign. As he mentally slapped himself awake, he took another slow look around. He saw nothing but the ever present desert terrain. The downed plane was behind him, he assumed, on the opposite side of his vehicle, not more than a couple of hundred yards past his present location. But to him, at that moment, it felt like it might as well have been million miles away.

A fly landing on his left temple, slowly tickling its way down his cheek. Unable to use the left arm, he swatted at it with the back of his good hand and, as he withdrew the limb, he noted the thick splotch of crimson on it. Not a fly at all, blood…his blood, and quite a bit of it too. "Scalp wound," he murmured in disgust. Highly vascular region. Bled like crazy sometimes, and this wound was meeting all the standard criteria. But he couldn't just sit there and wait for the Marines to rush in. That stuff only happened in the movies. He'd spent years toughening himself up and training for moments like these. Burt Gummer, monster hunter par excellence, known to all as courageous and tough as nails, had always been on the "inflicting" side of the equation. Now the tide had turned. That thought forced a groan of frustration through dry lips.

Water. Must have water.

Get the canteen, the little voice in his head whispered soothingly. It wasn't within sight, he already knew that. It had been on the passenger seat before the truck rolled but that thought didn't console him any since it hadn't been thrown free on _this_ side, where he needed it most.

Gingerly, he lay down and rolled onto his left shoulder to look back inside the shadowed interior of the truck. He spotted his HK-93A3 laying nearby and hauled it out. It appeared undamaged, but he set it aside for the moment. There was no way he would be able to use it with unerring accuracy with only one useful hand. But a part of him refused to leave it behind, at least not unless he had no other options. Heaving a mighty sigh, he nudged himself in further. The canteen was wedged in under a tool box, and it took several minutes for him to be able to haul it out. There was no sign of his walkie-talkie. Everything else looked either crushed, or of little use. Everything, except a white tackle box, clearly marked with a red cross.

Grunting with the effort, he just managed to snag the handle with his outstretched fingers. Once by his side, he wriggled back into the sunlight, hauled himself back up, and started fishing through the box. Inside he found what he'd expected, a small wooden board, just right to serve as a wrist splint. And some cravats to secure the limb to it.

He managed to lay his wrist against the splint, but the motion of binding it securely sent a bright flare of pain streaking up his arm and shoulder, caused his stomach to revolt. Waves of nausea rolled over him, and he would have lost his breakfast had he thought about eating that morning.

For the first time since the roll-over, he wondered where Tyler was. And how long it would take his friends in Perfection to realize he couldn't be raised on the walkie-talkie. Nor on the permanently mounted CB, for that matter. The latter would probable still work but the antenna was long since smashed to bits underneath the roll cage. There were MRE's back there as well, but the mere thought of food make him feel ill again.

Looking up at the still rising sun, he murmured, "Fat lot of good I am to those people back there. I can barely help myself." Frustration began to gnaw away at him again.

_It isn't like you to simply give up. Someone will come along eventually_, he reasoned, trying to buoy his flagging confidence. But until then, there were possibly others alive by the wreckage, people who knew little of El Blanco, if they knew anything at all, and if he didn't do something for them they would surely not be alive for long.

Still on his back, Burt turned toward the front of his vehicle. The chore wasn't an easy one. He felt his limbs shaking slightly. Not from fear, however. His bruised and battered body was going into shock, whether he wanted it to or not.

Taking a few calming breaths, he surveyed the area again. There was nothing of worth in the direction from which he'd come, except for a couple of broken shards from his side view mirror. Knowing he wasn't going to like what he was about to see, he reached for the largest hunk of mirror. The fingers of his right hand trembled slightly but not enough that he couldn't handle the shard. Pulling it before his face, he found his fears confirmed. Amidst all the dirt, there was a large cut on his temple, and blood still slowly oozed its way down his cheek. His sideburns and moustache were caked into a red muddy-looking mess. There was one bright beacon of hope, however. His left eye, still shut, didn't appear injured after all, just stuck closed from the drying blood.

Groping around for the first aid kit again, he ripped open a small package of gauze, dribbled water on it, and gingerly dabbed at the eye until the lids parted. As vision cleared, he glanced skyward, and murmured a profound prayer of thanks.

With El Blanco possibly lingering around, the survivalist wasted no additional time trying to get mobile again.

Grunting with effort, he managed to stagger to a kneeling position, then with his one good hand on the underside of his poor benighted chariot, Burt got to his feet. That was a mistake. White hot agony lanced up his left shin and into his toes at the same moment. For a brief moment, Gummer let his chin fall to his chest before giving a weary shake of his head. This situation was getting worse by the moment.

Gritting his teeth, he hobbled gingerly around the accident area, pausing to retrieve everything of use, sunglasses and hat first. He shouldered the HK-93A3, hung the canteen from his belt, then, as an afterthought, stooped and reached inside the truck bed to retrieve what looked two lengthy poles held together with dark straps. There was a large pack on one end and two sharp needles side by side on the other end. Continuing to walk around the truck, he stopped to collect additional articles thrown free. His vest, grenades still attached, was quickly donned despite the raising heat of the day. The flashlight lens and bulb were cracked, useless.

Though his ankle was complaining mightily at the abuse, Burt moved on. Right at the side of the wash was one dark glove. He had no idea where its mate was, so he stuffed it in a back pocket with his one free hand. Finally, he collected the med kit. With two long strips of bandage tape, he bound the rifle and pole together, reslung the weapons over his shoulder, and grasped the med box's handle.

Sticking to the soft bed of the gully, Burt headed toward his objective, both eyes straight ahead. The only sound he made was the scuffling of his boots in the sand, and an occasional sharp intake of breath.

About 15 minutes later, Gummer managed to get within close proximity to the crash site. There was still no movement outside the plane, though he believed he noted motion inside. That was a positive sign. Knowing his adversary, he refused, to call out. El Blanco couldn't hear they way he could, but the worm sensed vibrations just the same. Instead, Burt watched carefully for the moving dust trail and kept plugging along.

Nothing but seemingly endless miles of power lines stretched behind Tyler Reed's Jeep. As the lines before him grew closer to the road, he left the uneven ground in favor of the highway. By the time the pass out of the valley was in sight, he knew he had chosen wrong. Burt wasn't anywhere to be seen, and the power lines themselves appeared undamaged. He knew Gummer wouldn't have bothered tracking down a power problem past this point. Just then his radio crackled. Fumbling with it for a second he finally depressed the talk button.

"Jodi?"

No response. He tried to call each of the others with no better luck. Of course, he was out of range, but just for once he was hoping for some good old dumb luck, anything to make his task just a little easier.

Quickly, he spun the Jeep around and with his foot nearly to the floor, almost red lining the tach, he barreled back down the highway.

The radio cracked more. When he heard her voice, it was broken up. "…Bixby…down…will need…"

"Hold on, hold on," he yelled into the mic, knowing it was useless to raise his voice but doing it anyway.

Finally, he heard Jodi make another attempt.

"You hear me?" she asked, sounding very tense.

"Better now. Okay, what about Bixby?" He said immediately, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice at how badly his day was starting.

The voice on the other end sounded strained. "I'm going to give the good news/bad news scenario, which one you want first?"

Tyler sighed. "Let's have the bad news first. At least I'm sitting down."

There was a brief pause, before she answered. "I just got a call from some guy named Clayton from one of the regional airports northwest of us. He claims that somebody had radioed ahead their flight plan and he didn't show up. They can't reach him either. They're not sure what the story is with the whereabouts of the plane, but I'm wondering if that's what Burt went to check out."

Again Tyler sighed, louder this time. "No sight of a plane this way. And so far the lines look okay."

"Well, that's the other bad news." Jodi informed him with irritating calm.

"There's more?"

"Right after I got the call from the airport, I got a hold of the power company. Had me waiting for something like 15 minutes, can you believe it?"

Tyler stared at the radio, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

"Anyway, they told me one of the substations outside of Bixby went down. They figured the work would be done 'soon'. So that explains why none of us had power."

"Okay, so are you done with the bad news?"

There was a pregnant pause. "In a manner of speaking. It's obvious you set off in the wrong direction to start with."

"Thanks for restating the obvious," he replied a tad bit too sarcastically.

He heard the young Asian woman's voice exhale into the mic. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. And you know it. Anyway, the power just came back on about 10 minutes ago. Then I got a call from the Bruggemann's. You know them, the elderly couple who live about as far east as you can get and still be in the valley."

"Yeah, over by what Cletus called the Pumpkin Patch from Hell. I've seen 'em around from time to time when they come to your store."

"They just told me they have no electric. That was _after _the power was restored here…meaning—"

Reed almost laughed aloud. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I was definitely heading in the wrong direction all along," he reiterated Jodi's comment. "And here I was thinking Burt went to check out the power outage. He may have known something about the plane. Lord knows how but that man just has a sixth sense for stuff like that."

"Let's not go into that right now, Tyler. Whatever has happened, happened northeast of Perfection. Even if the plane isn't the problem, the power company said they won't be sending anyone down here to fix the problem without escort from either the National Guard, the Marines, or Burt.

Tyler made a rude noise. "What am I? Chopped liver?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Okay, here's the deal. Like I said before, Burt isn't at the southwest end of the valley. I've been there and am heading toward town. So either he's not doing what we thought and wound up farther off the road, or he went the opposite way. I'm gonna go with my gut and just follow the lines east of town. I dunno if the plane is connected or not but finding our resident graboid specialist is my first priority."

"Roger that!" Jodi said emphatically. "What's your 20?"

"About nine miles out of town, and hammer down. Clear the streets because I'm flying through." As an afterthought he asked, "So was any of this the good news?"

"In a manner of speaking. We have a few more answers than we did before."

About five minutes later, Tyler blazed through the tiny town of Perfection leaving only a high flying cloud of desert dust in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

By the time Burt Gummer had finally gotten within hailing distance of the plane, he noticed two things simultaneously. Whoever was in the plane was trying to climb out of the broken cockpit windshield. And El Blanco's dust cloud was about to pass between them. Freezing, scarcely daring to breath, the survivalist stood like a statue beneath the desert sun. Only a faint quiver in his shadow against the dry ground, and the occasional flicker of eyelashes, indicated there was any life within.

As the gigantic land version of a shark zoomed past, Burt's nostrils were assailed by choking dust, the acrid tang of airplane fuel, and the charred stench of airplane parts. The smell had been steadily growing but was, thanks to either El Blanco or an errant breeze, now quite pronounced. He grimaced, and stifled a cough.

The underground behemoth, unaware of the struggles going on above him, continued his relentless circling of the last spot he had detected motion.

Once the dust trial had disappeared on the distant side of the aircraft, Burt made a faltering, frantic dash toward the temporary safety of the rocky 'island'. He had less than a minute to accomplish this.

El Blanco already had a fix on him. He didn't need to see the dust trail shift to confirm it. His knotted gut and taut back muscles were screaming the message loud and clear, already sensing in-rushing doom. The graboid was coming, homing in on the bass drum pounding of military boots on broken ground. Gummer put on a desperate burst of speed, no longer aware of anything but the mounded dirt closing in.

Burt looked back and forth. The graboid. The oasis. The graboid. The startled eyes of a youth staring at him as he bore down on their location.

And then a stupid thing happened. At least as far as Gummer was concerned. The kid made a move as if to step off the rocky platform to meet him.

"Don't!" Burt bellowed, his good arm, still carrying the bobbing med kit, thrust before him in warning, his other hand vaguely gesturing to the kid's right. "Get back up there. Now!"

"But…" the kid started to say, not exactly stopping his forward momentum.

"Graboid!" Yelled the survivalist. And then he turned on his full speed, which, for a 6'4", middle-aged man, was quite an impressive sight, although neither the kid nor El Blanco was appreciating it much at the moment.

The worm edged up his speed a notch, closing in fast, preparing to surface and snag his next meal. The kid, looking a bit dazed, was leaning too close to the edge, and Burt was giving the foot race everything he had.

Long, snake-like tentacles cleared the surface followed by massive curved jaws. El Blanco was moving into position.

Leg muscles uncoiling, Burt became airborne, one boot grazing the needle sharp fangs that tipped one tentacle as he passed overhead. The graboid's other tentacles whipped around, trying to second guess his prey's next move.

But it was too late. Gummer landed near the youth, his boots thudding loudly on the rock. He slipped slightly, fought for a purchase with his one free hand…the injured one unfortunately…gasped, and lunged his torso forward. He felt something catch at the back of his boot, but then a pair of young strong hands was pulling him clear of the edge. He felt a hand gently pry the med kit handle free of his grip. But he paid it no mind.

Rolling over, he yanked his .44 magnum sidearm free of its holster and instinctively took careful aim. Inflamed by an odd mixture of panic and rage, he was past worrying about what this would do to the fragile economic and environmental truce set up between the people of Perfection, the local government, and the graboid himself.

"Open up!" He commanded through gritted teeth. "Cuz, if you're that hungry, I'm gonna put a whole lot of lead right down that gullet… courtesy of Desert Eagle!"

The white tentacles thrashed wildly against the rock at the sound of Gummer's voice, then stilled as if recognizing the seriousness of the threat.

The cessation of movement did the trick. With each beat of his heart, Burt grew calmer. For years, he'd been the unwilling protector of not only this giant voracious eating machine but of the valley itself. El Blanco's presence kept the land free of developers. He kept Burt's compound devoid of annoying neighbors. Burt slowly lowered the weapon, reholstered it. Instead, he pulled his rifle close, separated the pole-like device from it, and thumbed the toggle switch. The odd looking rod hummed too softly to hear at the moment but Burt could feel a slight vibration in his hand as it powered-up. "Well, old boy," he smirked at the tentacles slowing worming their way up to his position. "I have a little surprise for you…I hope!"

Using a quick jabbing motion, Burt plunged the dual needles into one white snaking tentacle. Though no one could see it, a heavy duty charge of electricity raced through the device, exiting out the tines at the end. An ear piercing shriek filled the air as the tentacles, all three of them plunged beneath the surface, leaving a tan cloud in their wake. The cloud fanned out into the distance, veered left, and began to once more circle their perch.

A solitary twitch, well short of a smile, pulled at one corner of the survivalist's mouth. Feeling pleased with himself, he rolled back onto the solid surface of dark rock, and inhaled deeply.

"Man, you are the luckiest guy alive," a voice was saying to him.

Burt cast an incredulous look at the 'kid'. "Yeah, right," he muttered, suddenly drawn into thinking about how much he'd lost over the years. Most of what he'd held dear over was completely and totally gone. Sure, he'd survived but to call him "lucky" was just plain ridiculous. "If only you knew," he added sarcastically.

Finally, Burt sat up and did a quick inventory of his supplies first and then his state of health. Nothing appeared missing, not even the canteen, and he was too pumped with adrenalin at the moment to feel much physically. The youth knelt down and touched his shoulder.

Turning to meet the kid's gaze, he nodded. "I know. You weren't flying the plane…were you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

The boy's chin gave an almost an imperceptible shake, but said nothing.

Standing hesitantly, Burt put weight on his injured ankle and found it tolerable. "Okay, let's go. Bring the med kit." He grasped his rifle and the modified cattle prod, then set them high and away from the perimeter. "Whatever you do, don't touch," he stated pointedly to the boy, before walking around the nearly crushed aircraft, hoping to find easier ingress than crawling in through the shattered windshield.

About fifty feet away, amidst torn up ground, the tail section still smoldered, tiny wisps of smoke curling out of the gaping wound. It was impossible, however, to tell if anyone was still in there. If there was anyone inside, he or she was no longer living, of that Burt had no doubts. The main section of the plane was slightly better, making Burt wonder why the boy hadn't made his egress from there. He didn't have long to get his answer. A male body, heavily mutilated by broken glass, and jagged metal, was sprawled in a bloody heap on what was currently the floor. Long inured to such sights, Burt simply knelt and felt for a carotid pulse. Nothing, as expected.

He felt a presence move behind him and he whirled, already reaching for the grip of his pistol until he realized it was just the kid, tagging along like a lost puppy. Turning til he faced the boy, he gently asked, "You dad?" Blue eyes met brown, and held.

"No, Mom and Dad are up front. He was just a friend of the family. He was tagging along. Dad told him to buckle up but I guess…" The boy hesitated, lower lip quivering, eyes glazed over with shock. "I guess he didn't listen."

Bending over enough to look the youth straight in the eye, Burt placed one long fingered hand on the young man's shoulder, and gave it reassuring squeeze. Speaking gently, he said in calming voice, "Sometimes there are no acceptable reasons for why these things happen." As he spoke, Burt peeled off the man's windbreaker and covered his face and shoulders with it. "Now, why don't we attend to the others."

Moving further within the shadowed cabin, Burt saw another body sprawled between two seats. This one was female, slightly younger than the man, and judging from the gentle rise and fall of her chest, very much alive. Stopping over her, Burt did a quick assessment for broken bones, and reflexes to pain. She moaned when her right leg was moved, and the distorted shape of the thigh, indicated a probable broken femur.

"That's Ginny, wife of…well…him." The boy told him pointing back over his shoulder.

As Burt continued to examine her overall condition, he glanced at "Ginny" and found her startling emerald eyes upon him.

"How do you feel? I mean, specifically. I know about the thigh. But what about elsewhere?"

"No, just feeling bumped and bruised," she replied, her voice getting stronger with each word.

"Good. Neck hurting? Numbness? No? Wiggle the fingers for me."

She did so.

"Can you feel this?" he queried, squeezing her toes through her Reeboks. "

She acknowledged the question with a quick dip of her chin. "Good, doesn't seem like there's any spinal cord injury."

"Any pain now," he asked next, palpating her abdomen. Her answer was a quick shake of her head.

Hunting around the overturned debris within the cabin, he located a jacket. Balling it up, he put it behind her head to make the woman more comfortable. "Okay, listen, I know it's going to be frustrating to just lay here but moving you right now might not be the best idea."

A fine boned trembling hand reached toward him. "My husband?" she whispered.

Lips pulling into a tight line, Burt hesitated. Looking at her with soft brown eyes filled with regret, his answer was nothing more than a slight shake of his head. As tears coursed down the woman's cheeks, he awkwardly patted her shoulder, and turned to the youth.

"Son…uh…what's you name boy?"

"Jason. But most of my friends just call me "JD."

"Fine JD. Stay put, watch Ginny until I call for you. Here's my canteen." Use the cap. If she wants a sip of water that's fine but nothing more than it would take to wet the lips, okay?"

With JD suitably occupied, Burt remained hunched over, and took the few remaining stops to the cockpit. It was just as well that kid was still too out-of-it to be thinking clearly. His parents, still strapped in, didn't appear to be in good shape. Burt made JD's mother his first priority due to her position in the seat. The safety restraints held her in place but she was literally suspended almost sideways. Her head lolled down, and her skin was a faint bluish color. Quickly, Gummer discovered the seat belt across her throat was the culprit. Potential neck injury or not, she would eventually asphyxiate if they left her where she was.

He needed the boy's help for this, he admitted with chagrin. With only one good arm, he couldn't bring her down without causing further injury to himself or her. "JD, I need you to walk to the front of the plane. Climb back in from there."

Dully, the boy edged out the way he'd come and soon appeared in front of the shattered windshield.

"Careful coming in now." Once JD had complied, Burt positioned the boy's hands by the mother's head and side. "Okay, you and me, we can do this. I'm going to cut her free. When that happens, she's going to drop. Be ready, because even though she's fairly small, it won't feel that way. You with me so far?"

"Sure, I guess so."

Burt gripped his shoulder tightly. "Not you guess so. This is important. Your folks are depending on you. You can do this and you will do this. Understand?" When the boy nodded, Gummer gave the wide, youthful shoulders an encouraging squeeze. "Okay, here goes." He carefully slid his injured left arm under her side. As long as he kept her closer to his shoulder, rather than the wrist, he could manage this. He had no other choice, aside from leaving her that way and _that_ he couldn't do.

A few deft knife strokes later and the woman tumbled free into their waiting arms. The boy had followed instructions, and Burt had managed to support the lower torso with just his upper arm but his strength wasn't what it normally was. Jabbing his knife into the seat cushion, he told JD, "Now, best as you can, we need to get her out of here so we can tend to your dad."

With superhuman effort on both their parts, man and boy managed to pull the prostrate woman through the windshield without further injuring themselves. Together they moved her into the only spot of shade atop their little oasis. Burt immediately did the standard ABC first aid check, airway, breathing, circulation, and as the woman's skin began to pink up, he rapidly went through the paces of checking for serious injury. Aside from a prodigiously large knot on her right temple, and possibly some cracked ribs, plus the expected bruises, she appeared relatively unharmed.

JD's father was easier to reach. He was on the side of the cockpit that leaned against the black stone surface. With the windshield slanted at an inconvenient angle, Burt opted to crawl in on his elbows and belly. He touched the man's neck, felt for the carotid artery, found it…and a pulse. The belt latch opened easily as well. Two for two. Things were looking up, he told himself ruefully. Despite the uncomfortable position, he did a basic survey for neck injuries prior to attempting to move him. Aside from a great deal of blood from number of facial lacerations, a broken nose, and obviously distressed breathing, JD's father probably could have been moved. But Burt decided against it. There was now just enough room to straighten him out a bit inside the cockpit. He did so, cautiously, watching for any unusual reactions.

Finally, that finished, Burt peeled back the man's light denim jacket. The front shoulder sticky with blood, and there was a considerable size oval red patch by the man's right side.

Retrieving his knife from the seat, Gummer wasted no time. He sliced the shirt open, peeled back the torn cloth, and examined the swollen, red, and open wound. The man began gasping loudly. JD hearing the noise, poked his head in. "What's going on?" he asked, clearly scared.

"Nothing I can't handle," Burt replied calmly. "I need you to go outside for a few minutes! Go on now." Then, he pivoted and called to the boy, "First, hand in the med kit."

Seconds later, JD was sliding it over to Burt, who single-handedly opened the latch and began fishing around for what he needed. He found the adhesive tape immediately. The other item provided to be slightly more elusive. Finally, he found it. However, unfolding the clear piece of thick plastic wrap proved to be a major challenge given his limited dexterity.

"JD, I need you here for a minute," Burt finally stated, forced to concede he couldn't do this alone. It didn't take long for the boy to respond. Burt noted he seemed more alert now, which, as far as he was concerned, was good for him too. At the moment, he certainly needed all the helping hands he could get. "Take this tape. Rip me off four good size strips, about this long," and he spread his thumb and forefinger to indicate the desired length.

Once that was done, he made sure the plastic was still in position, placed one tape strip on and said, "Now, JD, we'll seal off the other three sides. It must be on there good. No air allowed in, you hear?"

Not answering the question, JD finished the task, then backed away. "What's wrong with him? I mean, why doesn't he wake up? That doesn't look too bad, "he added, pointing to the small wound.

Burt settled back on his haunches, grimacing at the renewed surge of discomfort from his ankle. He took a couple of quick breaths, and wiped a rolling sweat droplet from his brow before it got into his eye. It was only then that Burt looked the boy in the eyes and patiently stated, "I know it doesn't look like much but it's very serious. Technically, it's called an open pneumothorax. What that means is that something has pierced both his chest wall and lungs. It caused his lung to collapse. That's why he was having such difficulty breathing. This will be a temporary fix, nothing more."

"He's not gonna die, is he?"

"No one's going to die, son. Not on my watch! Now, go see if Ginny needs some water. Take some yourself. Go easy on it. That's all we've got. Meanwhile, I'll see if your mom is awake."

Below them, the great white enormous eating machine, was closely circling their temporary place of sanctuary.

The red jeep followed the same basic trail as the Chevy had two hours before. Tyler's instincts were firmly settled on this course of action. He knew, somehow, that he only needed to keep going. And then he saw it, two indentations in the dirt, made from large knobby tires. Fresh impressions too. There had been no off-roaders around for nearly a month, and the storm two weeks ago would have obliterated those tracks in no time. Next he saw the warning light near the tripped switch. Closer still. The knobby tracks were heading toward a rather large wash and over the crest. Carefully, Tyler followed them right to the edge and looked down.

The sight that greeted his eyes made his stomach tighten painfully. Below him was the overturned Chevy. Without a moment's hesitation, he plunged down toward the vehicle. As he hopped out, he noted, out of the corner of one eye, an opening in the dirt wall. Graboid hole for sure. And the corresponding depression where El Blanco had burrowed back underground.

Fear turned to panic. Despite the relatively short time in town, Burt had become something of a friend and partner to him. If El Blanco had gotten the survivalist, Reed knew he'd feel like a family member had died. And since the people in Perfection were the only family he truly had these days, the thought was almost too painful to bear.

The jeep had barely come to sliding halt before Tyler jumped free, and threw himself on the ground beside the Chevy's driver side. A part of him actually didn't want to look. But he did anyway.

Nothing. Without realizing he was holding his breath, Tyler exhaled loudly in relief, then froze again when he observed browning spots in the sand. Dried blood. He was sure of it. And there was the cut seat belt. A great deal of disturbed dirt and boot prints encircled the vehicle. Which meant one of two things, either Burt was very much alive and had already wandered off or he had become graboid chow and someone else had been there. Totally unwilling to believe the latter, he hopped back in his truck, and radioed Jodi at Walter Chang's Market.

It wasn't Jodi who answered, however, It was Nancy, the blond middle-aged woman who had lived in the valley even longer than Burt had, surviving by selling crafts, while raising a young daughter to adulthood. As long as he got a message through, he didn't care who he spoke to.

"Nancy, I found Burt's truck."

There was silence. Then, "Am I to take it by your omission that Burt isn't there?"

"Well, it's a bit worse than that. The vehicle flipped. Looks like El Blanco was the culprit. But there's no sign of Burt."

"So he's on foot. That's not good news."

"It gets worse," he told her dryly. "I'm betting he's injured. I don't know how badly, but trust me, judging from the way the truck looks, he's probably not at his best."

"Now what? Want us to come out there?"

"With EB possibly still around? No way. Just stand by. I see footprints still heading east. I'm following. If I need help I'll get back to you."

"You take care, Tyler," Jodi chimed in from another radio.

"You bet," he responded, as he threw his muscular frame back into the driver's seat and sped off in the direction of the footprints.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Within a minute of settling down for a brief respite, Burt Gummer got yet another surprise. A pleasant one for a change. JD's mother's eyes were upon him, a bit unfocused but still a definite improvement over her previous condition. Pivoting toward her without actually standing up, Burt tried to give her a reassuring smile. He must have failed, because she didn't respond. Then again, he was a pretty sorry sight himself, and a stranger to boot. Finally, she turned toward him again.

"You telling me you're the cavalry?" She asked Burt with a whimsical lilting tone that was pleasant on the ears.

Looking askance at her, a pinched expression on etched on his face, Gummer couldn't erase the bitterness from his voice. "Not today."

"My family? Are—are they—I mean, did they-?"

Burt reached out a restraining hand and said in the gentlest voice he could muster. "JD's fine. Your husband is still in the plane. He's doing better too but we don't want to move him just yet, okay?"

The woman forced a flicker of a smile. She tried to shift her torso a bit to look at him better, but the move brought a grimace to her pleasant features. "There were two others."

"Ginny is back there too. She was awake and alert, last time I checked."

When he said no more, which was intentional on his part, Peggy Barron frowned and looked away. His silence about Marty said it all.

"Oh God, no!" she cried, choking with sorrow.

At the sound of her raised voice, JD crawled out of the plane's cockpit, and sat beside her. "Dad's doing better," he told her. "Ginny too. Don't worry, Mom, somehow, we'll get us out of this,"

Gummer patted the boy's shoulder with a mixture of pride and compassion. Despite JD's initial shock, the youth was proving to be more resilient than Burt had given the kid credit for. That was encouraging. When help arrived (and Burt refused to consider the alternative), the boy might be useful after all.

A few seconds later, JD flopped down unceremoniously beside the survivalist. They remained that way, side by side, gazing, for a minute or two, at yet another pass made by El Blanco.

"So, what happened to you?' The boy asked. "You look as bad as they do."

"Run in with him," Burt replied dryly, nodding his chin toward the creature. "I was on a reconnaissance mission, on my way here in fact, when he decided to try making love to my Chevy's drive shaft."

JD smiled at the imagery. "Ouch!"

"Tell me about it!" Burt muttered through lips pressed into a straight line.

After another close pass by El Blanco, JD turned toward the survivalist.

"You know, I was just thinking this don't look so good, no matter what you told Mom," JD whispered.

Deciding that honesty was the best policy in this case, Burt answered in an equally soft tone of voice. "It's not good. El Blanco is not just a killing machine, he's relentless. We could die of starvation or thirst long before he tires of waiting."

"You think someone will figure out we're missing and come after us?"

"Sure. The people in town know I went out on patrol when I-," he paused, realizing he hadn't told Jodi specifically what he was investigating, "They will figure out soon enough that they can't reach me by radio. Once that happens, someone there will start searching for me."

Pointing at the dust trail moving nearby, JD queried, "And once they do, how we gonna get past _that_?

"Don't worry about those things, that's my job."

The kid sighed loudly and cast a knowing look at the survivalist. "You have no idea what you're gonna do, right?"

"Fine, you want the truth. I am not sure yet. A lot depends on who shows up, and how long it takes to get rescue crews in here provided we can get them past El Blanco."

When Burt turned to study the boy's expression, the kid gave him an odd look. "Hey, you're the "doing the best I can with what I've got" guy, aren't you? I remember seeing you on a talk show once."

Burt looked distinctly uncomfortable. "On my better days, I'd admit to it. Today's another story."

"Still, you gotta have some ideas on how to deal with that thing out there."

"Son, sometimes situations arise when one has to admit that he needs assistance, and, much as it pains me to say so, this is one of those times."

There was movement behind them. "What are you to talking about? What 'thing' out there?"

"The graboid, Mom. Remember seeing those shows on TV about it."

The woman's eyes widened in terror. "You mean that's why we haven't moved far from the plane? And that—that—

"Graboid," the boy supplied.

"Yes, that graboid. It's out there? How close?"

Before Burt could stop JD, the boy answered, "Too close. Way too close."

Peggy closed her eyes, clearly fighting for self-control. "Don't you have means of controlling or getting rid of it?"

Burt forced a breath through pursed lips. "Ma'am, we dealing with a creature that answers to no one but himself. Graboids are fairly smart, and their actions not easy to predict."

"But scientists have been studying them for years, at least that's how it seemed. Surely they must have a means of controlling it by now."

"A graboid acknowledges no man or beast as master, he comes and goes as he pleases. With the assistance of careful planning and advanced technology aiding us, we are able to keep tabs on El Blanco. And in some cases, we can anticipate his actions. But that is all."

"So…you have no—no—"

"Contingency plans?"

"Yes, contingency plans for this sort of thing?"

"Planning is one thing. Execution is another. The reason everyone survives here is because we adapt to the situation, whatever it may be. No plan is written in stone. If I can't come up with something, someone else will. Everyone in the vicinity of Perfection is quick on their feet, so to speak. Fast thinkers, each one, men and women alike, and I trust them implicitly." Burt paused, deep in contemplation. "I don't say it to them, but the fact is that I admire each and every one of them."

"Maybe you should tell them. I'm sure they'd appreciate hearing it."

Burt shrugged aching shoulders. "I know it sounds like an empty promise, but I can assure you that somehow, some way, we will get you out of here safely. I'm just not prepared to say _how_ that will happen."

"Surely you didn't walk in here, what about getting out in whatever vehicle you came in on?"

"With all due respect Madam, you don't understand the gravity of this situation. El Blanco won't let us get far. Certainly not back to my truck. No one here is in a position to run back there. And even if they could, my trusty steed has gone belly up and won't be running any time soon. It's only by the grace of God that I arrived here in piece. And that was only because El Blanco wasn't as close as he is now."

The woman's eyes teared up but she smothered a rising sob by covering her mouth with trembling fingers.

"Would you like some water?" he asked a moment later in hopes of distracting the woman. Seeing her nod, he asked JD to retrieve the canteen. Wisely, the woman took only a small sip, recapped it and handed it back to her son. "If you'll excuse me, I am going to check on the condition of your husband and your friend."

"I see it! I see it!" Tyler whooped into the radio.

"What, the plane?" Came Jodi's soft voice.

"Whooo, yeah! And I'm not sure, but I think I see people on the rocks."

Jodi waited for more info. She knew what was coming next.

"Uh-oh! They've got company."

"Figured that," she said to Nancy and Rosalita without pressing the talk button. She doubted those people would be on higher solid stone unless El Blanco was around. "See Burt?" she asked.

"Can't tell from here. I think so, but I'll know soon enough. With EB around, I'm going to have haul ass in there and hope he doesn't grab an axle along the way. So you be ready for me to let you know what I need done."

"10-4."

True to his word, and to his profession, Tyler Reed, ex-NASCAR driver, put his trusty jeep through her paces. As expected, El Blanco heard his approach and veered off in his direction. "Keep calm," he whispered to himself several times as the graboid was closing. He was approaching the rocky perch at an angle, and needed a diversion provided Burt, ever prepared as he was, could provide one. Blasting his horn, he plunged onward.

The clarion call of the Reed's jeep spurred Burt to instant action. Quickly assessing the situation, he yanked a grenade from his vest. With as mighty a heave as he could give it, he hurled it toward the moving line of dirt. It exploded, loudly, sending dirt and stones flying in all directions.

El Blanco's sensitive vibration sensors sent waves of pain down his side, and with a wailing shriek, he turned left and promptly left the immediate vicinity of the rock island. He didn't keep on going, however.

Bouncing wildly across the uneven terrain, the faithful jeep came within 100 feet of the oasis when El Blanco came rushing back. Another grenade drove him off.

Hands cupped to his mouth, Burt yelled, "Tyler, only 2 left. Listen, I've got three injured people here."

"You including yourself in that number? You don't look so hot, Burt," Reed called back, stating the obvious.

"Forget about me. My state of well-being will keep for the moment. We need backboards, splints, proper transport. Alert Bixby Memorial Hospital we have an emergency."

To their right, the graboid's dust trail was flaring up again.

"I'm staying Burt, I can radio for help from here."

"Negative! Situation under control. Need rescue crews. You'll have to convince them to come in."

Tyler scratched his jaw. Arguing with Burt was like arguing with ornery donkey that refused to be budged. "Will they do it? They've been a bit skittish lately. Too worried the ambulance will get crippled."

"Then try bringing in a couple of fire department pumpers. Ask for Brandenberg. Those rigs are big, too heavy for El Blanco to drag under. We get these folks on backboards and onto the trucks, then use the hose beds to carry them out in one trip. Once we're back on asphalt, they can be transferred to the ambulances later. Of course, all of this is contingent upon you finding a fairly level path through this terrain."

"That's going to require a major diversion. How we going to manage that?"

"I trust you. You'll come up with something."

The dust trail was picking up speed, once again attracted by the jeeps running motor.

Burt snagged the boy by his right elbow. "Reed, I'm going to throw another grenade. Then I'm sending JD out to you." He turned to the youth, and stated commandingly, "You go with him, he'll get you back safely."

JD's back stiffened, and he drew himself up to his full height, which only brought the top of his head to Burt's shirt pocket. "No way, man! I am not leaving them. You can push me off of here, but I'll just get back on. So don't even try it!"

Taken aback by JD's sudden eruption of temper, Burt backed down. Looking back toward the jeep, he called, "Okay, forget it. Get moving. We'll wait."

With that, he hurled his next to last grenade. As expected, the graboid reversed course. However, long denied a meal for all his effort, the giant worm's hunger was overriding his sensitivity to the home-made 'bombs'. He moved out only half the previous distance and began to close in again as Tyler got his jeep in motion. Both worm and man raced back toward the wash.

With a pass worthy of a quarterback, Burt muscled the last baseball sized grenade as far as he could throw it toward the departing vehicle. Once more El Blanco vanished into the distance, while Tyler made a successful getaway.

Tyler blasted back through the culvert, up the far wall, and over onto rugged terrain. Sandstone dust flew everywhere, but he was only concerned about one thing. Putting as much distance as he could between him and the white graboid. Fear had nothing to do with it. Time did.

Keying the button for the CB, he hailed his new friends in Perfection. "Yeehaa! Good news, y'all!"

"You found them? Rosalita asked somewhat rhetorically. No one could exude that much joy over a radio and not have the news they all eagerly awaited to hear.

"You bet! The plane, the people on board. Woman, kid. Mid teens. Looks okay. Burt says two more…alive…but I didn't see them so I don't know how bad."

"Well, I guess that answers my next two questions."

Jodi cut in on another radio. "How does the situation look about getting them out. Since you don't mention passengers, I assume that means no one was able to ride with you. And that means one other thing. They've got company."

Jodi heard Tyler sigh loudly. "What else is new. Personally, I'd be surprised if the noise _didn't _attract him. The plane looked pretty beat up. Came down hard, split apart. I tried to get the kid to come with me but he refused. As for Burt, he'd never leave them alone under those conditions. So he wanted me to pass along some instructions. I should be back at the store in about fifteen minutes, but you guys gotta make some calls right away."

"I'm ready, go ahead."

"First he said to get "Brandenberg" and pumpers in here. We figured Bixby won't send ambulances."

Ruefully, Jodi muttered, "You're right about that. But what is he thinking? That the pumpers will be too heavy for El Blanco? That's probably true, but they're not going to do well moving quickly over the terrain, and you know it."

"Yeah, we both hoped there would be some fairly even ground somewhere, and there was, but no all the way through. So, I guess we gotta clear a path, you know, like Moses through the Red Sea." Tyler explained in moment of pure inspiration. "Make an opening between them and the highway, we can use my truck to ferry them over there. The old girl can handle that ground quicker and easier. In any case, you think we'll have problems getting BFD to do it?"

Jodi ran one petite finger across her shapely lips. "Brandenberg will do it, if I beg a bit. The lieutenant's the only one who's been willing to come in here for the occasional large brush fires and the like. But most of the time, unless lives are at stake, they stay away."

"So do it. Call them first. Call Twitchell too. There's not much he can do on short notice, but it's better to keep him in the loop."

"Think he'll send a chopper?" Nancy asked from one corner of the counter, her hands tightly around her middle. Just another crisis in Perfection, she told herself, business as usual. Answers came quickly when it mattered most.

Jodi, elbow on the countertop, cupped her chin in one hand. "With all that red tape he'd have to go through? I doubt it. The med-evac choppers used to run through here but not lately. For one thing their prop wash attracts El Blanco so they can't land. And they aren't equipped to carry that many people at once even if they were willing to lower a basket to haul them in."

"Maybe the old "diversion" standby will work," Rosalita said to the two other women in the building.

"You're right of course," Jodi told her. "But our biggest problem is going to be luring El Blanco away for the time it takes to go in there and get those people out. I mean, even if we got enough able bodies to do the carrying, El Blanco won't stay away long. At times like this, given what we've just heard, he'll be like a shark preparing for a feeding frenzy."

"So," Nancy piped in. "We feed him."

The other two women simply turned to stare at her. After a long pause, Rosalita signed resignedly, "And what, chica, do you think we'll use for bait, as if I don't already know. I mean, my poor herd is dwindling down to nothing as it is."

"Burt can afford to replace it." Jodi said with a slight smirk. Rosalita let out a sputtering laugh. The survivalist, despite his new school, was still struggling to make ends meet. Like any junkie, he was parking all of his available cash into his anti-graboid projects, or into improving his bunker, restoring his depleted firearms stockpile, and most recently, putting a new 'roof' over that same bunker after what the shriekers had done to it a month ago. The rebar alone had cost a fortune, particularly if one considered the extra hazard pay he literally had to fork over to the truck driver bringing the stuff in.

While Jodi and Rosalita sat practically head to head, Nancy picked up the phone and started dialing. In the midst of her conversation with the fire department, she heard Tyler's warm drawl melt through the shadowed interior of the store.

"Jodi, why so quiet? What's going on?"

"Planning session."

"Anything promising?"

"The tried and true game plan. Except there are some details that need working out."

Tyler Reed's voice held just a twinge of suspicion. "Someone provides the bait, I provide the delivery system. Right?"

The answer wasn't long in coming. "Pretty much it."

"So what's the problem. You know I'll gladly do it. Um, okay, hold on, I'm almost there. Just make your calls. We'll talk about the rest once we're sure Bixby will show up."

True to his word, Tyler came to a sliding halt in front of the store about five minutes later. Virtually flying out of the jeep he burst through the doorway, tossing his cowboy hat onto an empty table before joining the others.

"Bixby?" He asked succinctly.

Nancy smiled, her white teeth flashing at the ex-racecar driver. "On their way. Knew we could count on Lieutenant Brandenberg," she added, a relieved sigh escaping her lips. Given they'll be coming straight on the highway, they should get here in less than 25 minutes."

"So what details remain to be worked on?" Reed inquired.

"Well, knowing El Blanco's habits," explained Jodi, "If we position our bait too close to the others, he'll go for it alright, but I don't know when he fed last. A good size meal usually keeps him content for a day, but not always. That's one of the problems, we can anticipate his actions but never really be sure. So he may come after us anyway, just for sport. "

Tyler hiked one broad muscular shoulder in a quick shrug. "So we move the bait farther away."

"That leaves two other problems. One, how do we attract him to the cow—"

Tyler fixed his gaze Rosalita. "Oh man, loosing another one, huh?"

"Don't remind me," the Hispanic woman said through tense lips.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise."

The comment made Rosalita's brown eyes glitter with merriment. "Well, maybe we can work something out. I was going to hit up Burt for a return favor, but I'll gladly reconsider if you have something more pleasant in mind."

"Come on guys," Nancy muttered, rubbing her forehead as if she had a headache. "Let's focus."

Tyler got up and massaged the mid-aged woman's shoulders. "Relax. We'll get the job done. You know we will."

In answer, Nancy sighed and nodded slowly. Those fingers were working their magic.

Jodi, however, noticed the far away look on Tyler's face. She knew that expression. He was already back on the problem at hand.

Still standing behind Nancy, he said, "Now, we know we need to, somehow, lure EB to the bait, but also get him far enough away so that the rescue crews can do their work without attracting his attention again."

"Precisely!"

"Getting the fire department guys ready by the highway is no big deal. Getting the beef to a location is also no problem. Rosalita has that old cattle carrier. On the other hand, the missing piece is how do we let El Blanco know dinner's waiting miles away? What have we got on hand that could possibly make enough vibrations to get his attention away from the prey already sitting there?"

Jodi's eyes were closed as if she were taking a nap. No one there believed it. Suddenly those brown eyes popped open. "What about a sort of relay. Lead him along from place to place."

"I'm not even going to bother guessing who's job that will be," Nancy stated. She turned to Tyler. "But that old Jeep of yours just won't be up to handling the rough terrain at the speeds you'll need. You'll have to head him back to the mountains, because you sure as hell don't want him running parallel to the highway, even if it's in the northeast section. He'll just as liable to start chasing a passing car." Suddenly, she stopped and laughed. "Good Lord, I sound like I'm talking about big dog."

"Yeah, but this puppy is even more tenacious than a pit bull. You're right. We've got to somehow get his mind off the person leading him in and onto dinner, which should be tied up as far from the crash site as possible. Have I got all that straight? "

"Sounds good to me," the Asian store own stated crisply. "I've been thinking about a spare generator I have in the stockroom. Tied near the cow. That will get his interest off of you and onto her. Then we cut the power to the generator, and once old 'bossy' gets wind of what's coming, she'll do all the moving we need." She took a breath, took a long drink from tall glass, and continued, "But we still have one part of the plan not worked out. You can't use the jeep…at least not safely…so what else can we use to goad him on?"

With a broad, charming grin, Tyler responded, "You ladies just leave that part to me."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

"Think he's there yet?" JD asked Burt for the fourth time in about twenty minutes. Gummer cast a weary eye on the kid, and finally understood why those commercials loved to make fun of this sort of situation. Because it was so downright annoying, that's why. And beleaguered parents everywhere were watching the tube and either laughing or sympathizing with the hapless mom and dad in the car.

Burt couldn't help himself. He looked over at the kid's watch again. "He's probably back in town by now, knowing how he drives." Rather than listen to another question about the time or answer another question about 'monster' hunting, Gummer carefully rolled up onto his knees. Thanks to the rollover, everything was aching, so, when he finally got his legs under him and started standing, he looked ever bit his age and then some.

"Where you going?" The boy asked, looking at him with genuinely curious eyes.

Lifting his sunglasses and wiping another drop of sweat out of his already burning eyes, "Inside," he responded curtly and instantly regretted it.

He looked heavenward at the bright blistering ball of yellow almost at its zenith in the sky. He swallowed painfully, tempted to take another sip out of the canteen, but denying himself so that there would be more for the others. A quick check on his 'patients' told him they weren't faring much better. As best as she could, Peggy Barron had curled up against the cooler part of the stone pillar whose shade was rapidly disappearing. She was looking distinctly overdone, and Burt knew if he didn't do something soon, heat exhaustion could set in.

For the moment, he pictured the ground, knowing that even here, out in the desert, he could have done something to bring in water. If not from the cacti, whose pulp yielded a good bit of fluid, then from a water retrieval system, which, properly set up would provide a couple of pints a day. Unfortunately, the best place for that was back at the dried stream bed, where moisture was still trapped deep below the sandy surface. He could picture it. Dig the hole, place a cup at the bottom, spread out a decent size plastic sheet, some rocks to anchor the corners, a some smaller stones to give some weight to the center. The condensation against the plastic would slowly drip into the cup.

The mere thought of it made his throat burn with thirst. He pondered sticking a pebble in his cheek but wasn't too eager to reach to the ground for it, given the present company waiting below.

To add insult to injury, the broken wrist had virtually doubled in size and was screaming at him to stop moving it. If only El Blanco hadn't… "Stop it!" He mentally chastised himself. "Keep busy. They need shelter. You need shelter. Take inventory. See what's on hand."

Giving up useless wishes and concentrating on the present, he cautiously dropped down to both knees, and painstakingly worked his way back inside the plane. Both people remained where they were, stuporous from the heat and from their injuries. The father was getting pale again, probably bleeding internally.

Mentally reviewing some basics from the first aid book he'd read long ago, Burt knew he couldn't risk giving an unconscious man fluids. JD had torn as trip of his shirt off and had wet it enough to brush his father's lips with it. The damp cloth still lay by Greg's side. Ginny murmured something to him. Burt took a half cap full of the precious fluid and touched it to her lips. She put trembling fingers around his one useful hand and drained it, before falling back.

Desert sunlight was knifing into the interior of the plane through bashed in windows, making the temperature dangerously high.

"So hot!" she murmured.

Patting her shoulder gently, he murmured, "I know. Let me work on this for a little while." He practically crab-walked back to the nose of the aircraft, using his right hand to pull himself along. There was nothing back there of any use. The cargo hold of the plane probably had some sort of provisions for emergencies but there was one major obstacle between him and that section of the plane. A moving and very hungry graboid.

Making unconscious noises of disappointment, he headed back toward the cockpit and noticed something. Between the two seats, between pilot and copilot yokes, was a narrow opening. Squeezing his way inside, he found a small storage compartment and a hatch leading to the outside. Deftly, he popped the latch open, and let the bright light filter in. What greeted his eyes was a like manna from heaven. A large blue tarp was the first thing he noted. Without hesitation, he tossed it out the hatch. The next thing he found was a small tool box, which he left in place. There was a small container, which when opened had no telltale odors of anything poisonous. Pouring a tiny amount into his injured palm, Burt noted it was clear. He sniffed again, and prudently stuck just the tip of his tongue in it, fully prepared to spit it out again if his taste buds hollered a warning.

Nothing. No foul taste. No burning sensations. Nothing but water. Not even of sufficient amount to fill his canteen again, but enough to suffice for just a little while longer, provided the rescuers didn't delay their arrival unduly.

"JD, come and take this." He handed the container out to waiting hands. "Give the last of the water in my canteen to everyone except your father. Just keep on wetting his lips. Then refill it with this water. Be careful, that's all there is. Every drop is precious."

"Yes sir," JD responded quickly, suddenly eager to please. While he did what he was told, Burt resumed his search and with an uncharacteristic and unabashed whoop of delight, he snagged a length of rope from the farthest point within the compartment.

Getting out of the hatch in his present condition was difficult but he managed.

With the boys' help, he got the rope unraveled, and as a team, they tied one end of the rope through two loops on one side of tarp, which they got over the stone pillar. Burt used his Bowie knife to cut the remaining rope free and laced it through the eyelets on the other side of the blue covering. Once tied up to solid metal inside the cockpit and spread out, he was able to fashion a makeshift lean-to. Once that was accomplished, he and JD pulled both his father and

Ginny out onto the hard rock surface.

Ginny shrieked despite the care they gave in trying to keep the leg as immobilized as possible. Gritting her teeth, she gave them as much help as she was able, and then settled back onto the hard surface with a load groan.

Next to her, Barron remained incapacitated and uncommunicative. But at least they now had shade outside of the metal tomb, plus an occasional dry desert breeze blowing through to make them just a tiny bit more comfortable. And so they waited.

Getting together what they needed took little time now that they had a plan. Rosalita went to fetch her pickup, the cattle trailer, and the 'bait', who mooed at her pitifully as if the bovine creature knew what was coming.

While she was out performing that task, two Class A, 1,000 gallon pumpers rumbled down the main 'drag' of Perfection town, and headed northeast toward the preapproved location.

She met Jodi in front of Chang's Market and with the help of Nancy, they loaded on the 5,000 watt gas generator powered by a Briggs and Stratton engine, the kind of engine that was noisy, perfect for attracting a hungry graboid. Jodi handed the keys from Tyler's Jeep over to Nancy.

"Where is Tyler anyway?" she asked, looking around at his garage area.

"I have no idea. But he said you were to meet him by the fire trucks, so that's exactly what we do.

"Extra batteries for the walkie-talkies?"

"Yup."

"Ambulances going to meet us?" Nancy asked.

Jodi nodded. "Yeah, Lt. Brandenberg got persuasive with them. So they are setting up position down there at the far end of the valley, nearest Bixby."

"Brave souls," Nancy commented dryly.

"Can't blame them. We're used to this, they're not."

"It's still going to be a long ferry ride for the crash victims."

"True, but beggars can't be choosers, as they old saying goes."

Still looking back in the general vicinity of Bixby, Nancy asked, almost absent-mindedly, "You call the Bruggemann's to tell them we're using their access road and to stay inside for the rest of the day?"

"Yup! All taken care of." With one final glance at the garage, Jodi got in the pickup with Rosalita, and slammed the door. "Let's get moving."

"Aye-aye,sir!" Sanchez said with a bright smile, and the started the ignition.

They met the fire service personnel waiting about four miles south of the crash site, their huge engines drumming a bass beat upon the asphalt. As Rosalita and Jodi breezed on by, Nancy pulled up in Tyler's truck, and began signaling for the pump 'chauffeurs' to cut the engines.

Both enormous vehicles sat reflecting a bright, but dusty red, their strobes light flashing rhythmically. Soon, even that stopped since there was no good reason to run the power down during however long it would take to retrieve the victims.

Standing beside the jeep, Nancy kept looking in the distance toward Perfection. Tyler said he'd meet them and she was beginning to worry. So much hinged on him carrying out his part of the deal. She looked at the bleakness of the desert terrain and the cerulean skies above, and marveled at how simplicity and complexity could fit together to form something so formidable yet so beautiful. Only the occasional murmur of male voices behind her and the crackle and hiss of the fire department radios, which were way too far from base to be useful. She understood why these people didn't like coming here. They were all standing in dangerous territory without any means of communication, except within a few miles of each other, the lifeline being a limited distance CB radio or their own fire department radio equipment.

Then, she heard something different. A kind of buzzing, a drone not of the desert or the now silenced fire service vehicles. Down the road, growing closer, was a large plume of desert dust being kicked up from the hot asphalt road surface. Within a minute, she was able to see what the disturbance was…a dirt bike, and a 'flying' one at that. When it slowed down by them, she saw a helmeted man straddling the seat, and for a second wondered who it was, until she recognized the broad shoulders and the cowboy boots.

"Tyler! I didn't know you had one of these things," she blurted in pleasant surprise.

"Well, I've been fixing her up, slowly but surely. Got her done only two days ago. This is the first time I've had her out on the road, and she runs just fine." He looked at the men in turn-out gear standing by the rear running boards on one pumper. "We all ready?"

Nancy shrugged expansively, then said with more confidence, "As ready as we can be. Did you bring the radio?"

He pointed to the radio duct taped to the gas tank.

"Want to talk to the guys over there, go over the details with them about what you plan on doing?"

"Sure thing." He moved off toward the group of people. "Lt. Brandenberg?" he asked, not sure who he was supposed to be looking for.

A figure broke from the group, sporting the carbon copy turnout coat, boots, bunker pants, and helmet. But the similarities ended there. Brandenberg, he noted was distinctly short and stocky, and the tan, smooth jaw looked as if he'd never shaved a day in his life. But that wasn't the most striking feature of the firefighter. It was the incredibly vibrant turquoise eyes, large and round.

"Contacts?" he wondered silently in a fleeting moment of curiosity. But there was something about the guy that implied a no-nonsense, take charge kind of person, and the vanity connected with artificially colored contacts seemed out of place.

However, the biggest difference between him and his men went far beyond that. When he answered, the voice was melodic, smooth, and most definitely female.

Squinting in surprise, and taken aback by the startling revelation, Tyler unconsciously leaned in to take a closer look.

The lieutenant sighed with exasperation. "Okay, I'm a woman. Happy now? So who are you?"

Swallowing at the bluntness of the question, he sputtered, "Tyler, Tyler Reed sir, uh—ma'am."

"Oh, the new kid on the block, huh?" she commented with an expression that said she clearly was not impressed.

Noticing her looking him over, head to foot, Tyler grew a tad uncomfortable. It was as if she evaluating him clinically rather than emotionally as women generally did. Feeling a bit unnerved by her instant assessment of his character, he looked down at his feet like a shy boy. Finally, feeling the need to say something, anything, he blurted out, "I—I uh run Desert Jack's Graboid Adventures now."

"Aha," she said flatly, the skeptical tone of her voice barely noticeable but still there nonetheless.

"I'm not _him_," said Tyler in an equally level tone.

The woman pulled off her helmet and tossed it up on the top of the hose bed. A full head of thick, short, wavy blue-black hair, glittered in the sun's brilliant glow. It only made her eyes glow all the more.

"No, of course you're not," she said levelly but the cynicism was there for sure.

For some unexplainable reason, Tyler felt his blood pressure begin to rise. "Look, I don't need to fake my tours, or explain myself to you for that matter," he said through gritted teeth.

The woman's uncanny blue orbs locked on his for a few extra seconds, and then a slight up-tilting of her full lips broke the stern expression. "You'll do," she said through the minute smile.

Now, Reed didn't know if he wanted to be angry or flattered. "Do for what?"

"Whatever it is you are hoping to do. I would feel terribly guilty letting some idiot get himself killed by trying to pull this stunt off. But I think you could probably carry it out, and now I won't worry quite so much." She ran surprising thin, long fingers through her hair, removed her heavy turnout coat, and threw it on the diamond plate. A second later, she parked herself on that broad silver running board, drew up one leg, and leaned back against a compartment door.

For another few seconds they just stared at each other. As he'd guessed, she was stocky, mid-thirties, and leaning slightly toward pudginess, but attractive in a way he couldn't easily define. Nevertheless, he mentally backpedaled, knowing Lt. Brandenberg would never be his type. Still a little charm never hurt. _That _ he turned on with a smile designed to melt even the most frozen heart.

It didn't work. Her guarded expression remained unchanged.

Hiking up one eyebrow, he replaced the helmet on his head, and said, "Basic plan is this. I go in there, make tons of noise, go just fast enough to keep our albino buddy interested in me, head toward Rosalita's position, and hopefully, we can get him to lose interest in the folks by the plane."

Brandenberg nodded but made no further comment other than to say, "As ridiculous as it may sound…don't take unnecessary risks out there. I got the guys to come, but part of my responsibility is to balance the benefits of sending people in on a rescue versus assuring the health and well-being of the people who serve with me. Going in there after you would not fit in well with _my_ plans to protect my men. You understand?"

Head bobbing quickly in acknowledgment, Reed pulled back on the throttle so that the engine whined hoarsely.

He tore out of there without a single look back. "No wonder Burt asked for Brandenberg. That woman is tough as nails and twice as prickly!" He swore under his breath, hoping this first run in with the Lieutenant would be his last." However, as his knobby tires crunched into the dirt, his mind turned to the job at hand.

Cutting right across the rough terrain, he made a bee line for the downed plane. Though he had to slow down in places, he made excellent time, and soon he saw both plane and what looked like a blue canopy. "Leave it to Gummer," he thought wryly. "Always able to rig up something."

Jumping the lip of the ravine, he landed with a thud, rear wheels first, the springs on the rear fork compressing with the impact. He followed that to just past the overturned Chevy, flew up the hill, and landed evenly on both tires. Gunning the throttle, he literally bounced over ruts and small dirt mounds. By that point, he could see two figures rise to their feet. One was very tall and lean, the other far shorter, more compact in build. He could just make out the taller of the two waving an arm broadly.

So far so good, Tyler thought. They were ready even if they didn't know the plan. He reminded himself that Burt trusted him, and it was time for him to trust himself. He could do this. Dirt biking may not have been one of his strengths but he was prepared mentally and physically to give El Blanco a run for his money. Or in this case, his dinner.

He hurtled forward, ran circles around the graboid, who, frustrated, surfaced in a cloud of dirt and spreading jaws. When within earshot, he hollered at the top of his lungs, "Don't move, wait on us to get you." And then he was off, but not before taking notice of the survivalist giving him a thumbs up.

From that point on, Tyler was literally racing for his life. There was a huge difference between racing cars and racing dirt bikes. He excelled at one and dabbled in the other. But he wasn't a pro at this and he knew it. A couple of times, Reed took a turn too quickly and almost dumped the bike. On a few other occasions, he misjudged the lay of the land or the distance between hills and almost flipped himself off. El Blanco was close…all the time.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Salty perspiration stinging his eyes, dust choking his lungs, Reed continued to dodge boulders, scrub brush, and assorted other obstacles while, all the while, managing to keep just out of reach of the graboids tentacles. He flew like he had a demon on his tail, which in actuality was a pretty fair assessment of the situation. Once, he even misjudged his track, and the albino got ahead of him, billowing out of the ground like an erupting volcano. How he managed to avoid the tentacles was a complete mystery. He could only put it down to sheer dumb luck or the providence of a supreme being. Frustrated with the chase, El Blanco had stopped moving for a moment.

He took that moment to key the mic on the radio. "Rosalita, you copy?"

"10-4, Tyler," he heard the soft accented voice say. "You must be close because you're coming in loud and clear."

"Getting there. EB's gone underground. I know he's still here. Playing cat and mouse with me, I think. Fire up the generator now. And get ready."

"Roger, we'll be waiting."

Sweat pouring down his back, both from effort and a twinge of fear, Tyler rode back over the spot where the graboid had stopped. Again, the tentacles rose to the surface, writhing around for a grip on his wheels. Tyler passed close by, kicking dirt and stones hard enough to make the snake like mouth parts vanish. Once more, the graboid/human contest was renewed.

Feverishly, heart pounding in his chest, Tyler drew nearer to the place where Rosalita was supposed to meet him. He began to see the landmarks of the Bruggemann homestead just ahead. Giving the throttle a vicious twist, he soared over a large gully, and turned to make sure the 'worm' was still in pursuit. El Blanco came through the wall of the ravine and immediately tunneled back down. He saw the trace of movement come up his side of the hill, so he took off yet again.

Suddenly, ahead, he saw hands waving. "Rosalita! Jodi!" he almost cried for joy.

The dirt bike was called upon to give the competition her all, and she responded far above expectations, taking the abuse, and never faltering. He saw the rocky outcropping Rosalita and Jodi had perched on, their truck not far away. Quick thinking as Rosalita was, she had already detached the cattle trailer, and was ready to move out as soon as the graboid had grabbed his lunch.

Then, though the din of his engine and the pounding of his pulse in his ears, he picked up the tones of a generator thrumming away. Within a minute, he got to them, cut the engine, and leaped onto the rocks smooth surface, as his trusty steed, now riderless and nearly silent, rolled on past to land with a thump on the ground.

All three people stood silently, holding their breaths. At first, El Blanco, about 30 feet back, seemed inclined to investigate the sound of the motorcycle hitting the dirt. However, the steady vibrations from the generator were clearly more appealing. His mounded trail veered off toward them in a head on collision. Using Rosalita for leverage, Jodi sent a hand flying to the kill switch on the generator. A single tentacle nearly took off her hand for all her trouble, but Rosalita was stronger than she looked, and she managed to jerk the Asian woman back just in time.

Again, the giant worm paused as if undecided over his next course of action.

Taking a couple of stones, Rosalita began pitching them expertly at the poor sacrifice about 30 feet distant. One hit the animal's flank and it bellowed out its confusion. No longer frozen with fear, the animal stomped the ground in an effort to pull loose from the tether that pinned it to the spot.

El Blanco's wide trail began to slowly move forward as if he was expecting another trick. By now, the hapless cow was well aware of what was approaching and struggled all the more. With an incredible surge of speed, the graboid rushed forward, and disappeared.

Holding their breaths, all three people watched the cow shifting from foot to foot as if she wished she could get all four hooves off the ground at one time.

And then it happened. The maw of El Blanco, fully extended, came up under the animal's belly, its tentacle fangs biting deep and ripping. The cow bellowed again, this time in agony, as the graboid tried to rip it to shreds for easier ingestion. Blood flowed everywhere. Rosalita buried her face in Tyler's shirt and clung to him, unable to face what she'd just done.

The attack was over in a matter of 30 seconds. The cow disappeared underground, and the scene of recent carnage fell silent.

"Wait," Tyler warned Jodi, holding out a restraining arm. "Let's be sure. Give it 10 minutes. Then I'll retrieve the bike and see if El Blanco comes around."

He reached down and turned on the wrist seismo. The others did the same. Since they only functioned when El Blanco was approaching, and stopped once the graboid got within a certain distance so as not to alert the creature of their presence, a silent seismo at this point didn't mean the graboid was gone. It could also mean he was within the perimeter of safety.

Ten minutes seemed like an eternity but finally Tyler gave the thumbs up. He fetched a couple stones and hurled them in the general direction of where El Blanco had burrowed back underground. Nothing. Not even a faint quiver in the ground.

Gingerly he put a pointed boot tip to the ground and scraped. Still nothing.

"It's safe, I think." He stepped down, and jogged to his downed motorcycle. She had taken a beating on the paint job but otherwise looked serviceable. He pumped the kickstart and she roared to life. Tyler felt his body tensing in anticipation of sudden attack but nothing happened. Exhaling sharply with unbridled relief, he rolled toward the ladies and watched them get in Rosalita's truck. Leaving the cattle carrier behind, the trio drove down the Bruggemann's access road straight toward the highway.

Once on the asphalt, the group sped toward the waiting fire trucks. Leaning down and depressing the talk button of the radio still taped to his motorcycle, he alerted the group that they were on their way, and in all probability they would have no trouble, though he did warn them to activate their seismos just in case.

"That's encouraging," Brandenberg told him, sounding distinctly unhappy. He could almost envision her grimacing over the revelation that risks still needed to be taken. "We'll wait on you to get here."

"10-4, be there in a couple of minutes."

True to his word, Tyler flew toward them, with Rosalita, nearly red‑lining her tach, in hot pursuit. The three women gave each other tremendous hugs of congratulations and then swarmed all over Tyler, who bore the attention with an enormous grin. Their party was over quickly, however, when the lieutenant reminded them that phase two of the rescue needed to begin.

Giving his faithful jeep an affectionate pat, he turned over the engine, and got in the driver's seat. Brandenberg motioned to several of the men, who, carrying several backboards, cervical collars, splints, and other medical gear, got in the back of the vehicle, while she chose the standard line officer position in the right front passenger side.

"Move 'em out, cowboy," she said in a pleasantly warm tone of voice. At last, for her the waiting was over. Tyler understood the feeling all too well. There came a point when the fun turned to risks, and at that moment, a level-headed clear-thinking calm would banish all feelings of joy or apprehension until the only thing remaining was the challenge ahead to be conquered.

"I spotted a potential access path not too far from here. Looked wide and level enough for my jeep, at least a part of the way. Less bouncing for those poor folks."

"Fine with me," the woman responded quietly, but her head was swiveling around as if looking for any unusual signs of disturbance in the ground.

Turning on the charming smile again, he told her, "Nothing to worry about. El Blanco should be sleeping off that meal as we speak."

"I understand that but, it's like I told you before—"

"Yeah, I know, you are responsible for their safety as well. But those guys look like they can take care of themselves. They sure breed 'em big in Bixby."

The lieutenant's brilliant blue eyes locked on his face, and she beamed a smile at him that lit up her features. "Not exactly, Reed. I hand picked each and every one of them."

"Little or big, El Blanco normally doesn't care. Their size won't help them out here."

"Too true. However, the instructions I originally got said you planned on transported the injured in the hose beds if necessary. Now, I don't know if you noticed this or not but these are brand new state of the art Pierce pumpers. Big, high. Now try to picture a couple of reasonably short people with only average strength trying to lift wounded people, strapped to backboards, from the ground to those hose beds. It's going to be difficult and tricky under the best of circumstances."

"I hadn't really thought about that." Tyler admitted.

She nodded sagely. "Ah, but I did. And that's why the biggest and brawniest are with us today. Although, I am really hoping it won't be necessary. Both rigs have enclosed cabs with bench seats. Can seat full size adults four across. I don't see any reason why we can't put at least two of the injured inside the cab, one in each truck. It shouldn't be too hard to jury rig restraining belts to keep them in place. My guys can ride on the hose beds. Anyone capable of sitting up, we'll transport up either up front with me or in your vehicle."

"Sounds like a plan!" He said, with a broad grin, pleased that things were finally pulling together.

Long before they got to the downed aircraft, they heard the whooping shouts of joy from what looked to be a teenage boy, and Burt, an imperturbable set to his features, standing tall beside him.

As the crew jumped off the jeep, and carried the first aid equipment toward the rocks, Tyler saw the lieutenant walk calmly forward until she was at Burt's feet and squinting up at him.

"Gummer, Gummer, you sure look like you were on the losing end of a very big stick."

"Brandenberg," was all Burt said by way of acknowledgment, glaring daggers at her and sounding as though he'd just swallowed something truly awful.

"I take it you two know each other?" Tyler asked ingenuously. The only response he received were two sets of eyes, one brown and one turquoise, glaring back at him.

Rolling his own eyes skyward, he muttered, "Oh boy" and jumped up on the rock to see if he could lend a hand. Behind him heard a feminine voice, say, "Shut up and let me see." He turned to see what she was doing. Part of him was relieved he stood a distance away because if looks could kill, Brandenberg, and anyone unlucky enough to be in close proximity to her, would have spontaneously combusted right on the spot.

"I will not!" was the curt reply and suddenly the survivalist was beside him. "Let's get this over with…expeditiously…because I absolutely and positively refuse to let Brunhilda over there lay a finger on me."

"So what's the big deal?" Reed asked, hiding a lopsided grin. "It's not like she can do any more damage to you than you've already done to yourself."

"Thanks for the support…pal!"

The lieutenant's voice, clearly running out of patience, called again, "Gummer, you're already a humongous pain in my backside. Just give up the macho garbage and get yourself over here."

For a moment the two warring parties stared each other down. It didn't surprise Tyler that Brandenberg won the contest of wills.

Too worn and weary to fight anymore, Burt unexpectedly parked himself and slid down onto the rock to within easy reach.

"How long you been out here?" She queried as she looked at his swollen wrist and fingers.

"'bout four hours, give or take 15 minutes. I'm not sure when El Blanco flipped my truck."

Leaning close, she removed his dusty yellowed Hawks cap, and examined the scalp wound. "Cutting it close," she informed him. "The docs may not want to stitch it up after so many hours have gone by. The wound is filthy. They may just end up putting on a few 'butterflies' and letting it drain."

"No hospitals," Burt growled.

The lieutenant smirked at him and simply stated, "Wuss."

"I am not a wuss!" Gummer sputtered, punctuating each word.

"Right," was the succinct response. She gave him a knowing grin. "You need my help getting in the jeep?"

Brandenberg didn't bother waiting for an answer. She knew what he would tell her anyway, so she just turned her back on him and went to help her men with triage. After the men had tightly bound the injured people onto back boards, with a fussy JD included, they took the two worst injured back to the vehicle and secured them on the bench seats in the back of the jeep.

Tyler made the first run back smoothly, and once back by the fire service vehicles, Greg Barron, and Ginny were moved into the enclosed cabs of each truck.

The second trip got the trauma boxes, JD and his mother, and the discreetly wrapped body of Marty Shepherd, moved back to the asphalt. They were settled onto the pavement in preparation for the arrival of the last of the victims, one very irritated and temperamental survivalist.

By the time Tyler got back to the rock, he found Gummer settled on one side of the rock and Brandenberg, situated as far from him as possible, sitting cross legged and looking as if she were basking in the sun. "One of these I have _got_ to ask Jodi about this," he promised himself.

The two men and one woman left the area, all too happy to be away from there. Finally, they were home free. "Ah, life is good!" Tyler said, clasping Burt's shoulder. Seated next to him, the Gummer simply grunted.

And then it happened. The blaring of a wrist seismo. "No! No!" Tyler howled as he saw graboid dust spouting up and heading in their general direction. "You ate a whole freakin' cow. How can you be hungry after that!" Pushing the gas pedal down, he yelled, "Hang on, it's gonna be a rough half mile.

Metal cracking like a rifle each time stones flew up from all terrain tires. The springs moaned and groaned each time the vehicle became airborne. Tyler didn't need to know that the lieutenant was holding on for dear life. In fact, she had prostrated herself on the floor boards in an effort to keep from being bucked off by the mechanical bronco as it plummeted across the landscape.

Beside him, Tyler noted Burt's sidearm appear in readiness. If the graboid accomplished the unthinkable and caught up to them, the survivalist personally planned on excising a couple of those tentacles the hard way.

El Blanco was indeed on an intercepting course. The dirt above him mounded and rolled. Tyler pleaded with his baby for just a little more horsepower. They plunged down a hill, raced up the other side and became airborne just as they reached the highway. When they were back on terra firma, and on the asphalt as well, Tyler jerked the wheel so that his jeep was literally sliding sideways toward the opposite shoulder of the highway. El Blanco dove, burrowed deep and surfaced on the other side, rearing its ugly white body out of the ground. Tyler's jeep slid sideways right into the graboid, who let loose a resounding bellow, before ducking out of site.

Heart pounding wildly in his chest, Tyler floored the accelerator, felt the wheels grip the pavement, and fled down the highway as fast as he steed would take him.

Old faithful was steaming heavily from the abuse when the worn and battle-weary travelers got back to the pumpers. But Tyler paid it no mind. "Come on, we've got to get out here," he called out.

Rosalita sized up the situation by simply looking at the faces of the newest arrivals. "He came back?" she queried in disbelief. "The cow should have been more than enough!"

"I know, I know," Tyler shouted as he ran past her to help load the other two people onto the hose beds. He certainly didn't want them lying there, and his jeep, which was make funny noises of protest, was not questionably capable of making it back to the southeast end of the valley. He also realized Brandenberg's assessment had been correct. The chore of getting the injured up onto the top of the vehicles required two teams, one team to hoist the boards from the road to the waiting hands above them, and the second team to lift the victims safely up and onto the 'bed'.

He also noticed that they had set it up in such a way that only one victim rode atop one vehicle, with the other firefighters sitting next to them to keep an eye out for danger.

Pointing down toward Perfection, Tyler yelled over the din of the pumpers engines, "All three of you get back to town! My jeep's sprung a leak somewhere. She's seriously overheated. We'll go on one of the fire trucks."

Scurrying for the nearest truck, he slid into the front cab between the chauffer and a blond-haired, blue eyed, Viking of a man, who chose to ignore him in favor of perusing the terrain for signs of the graboid.

Unfortunately, both vehicles were facing the wrong way, and the highway was too narrow to complete a turn in a single move without riding the shoulders.

Behind them the graboid was closing in again, appearing first on one side of the highway and then the other.

Hobbling like a senior citizen with a bad case of gout, Burt returned to the jeep and retrieved his rifle and the silver pole. Brandenberg, showing as much trepidation as anyone was ever likely to see, ran back to meet him on the return trip, and virtually dragged him along. Without hesitation, she literally pushed him up the steps and into the cab, threw herself in beside him and slammed the heavy doors shut.

Reaching for the radio microphone, her voice boomed a command to the other truck to clear out. "Forward," Burt told her.

"Are you high?" She shouted, appalled at the notion of continuing to drive in the 'wrong' direction.

"No, I have a plan. Let El Blanco follow us. Just long enough for them to turn themselves around."

"And what about us? I've got precious cargo back there, you know!"

"Trust me," he implored, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. "If there's one thing I don't want happening, it's to see anyone hurt."

Looking at the sweating chauffer, she passed along instructions to the other vehicle. Then it was their turn. "Do it," she ordered and watched the plan unfold.

As Gummer predicted the enormous worm heard the vehicle with Burt in it begin its journey down the highway. Obligingly, he followed its wake, like a wolf trailing its prey. Brandenberg gave orders to the remaining vehicle to turn around with as little disturbance as possible. Only after the truck radioed back that they were on their way to Perfection, did Burt tell them to perform the same maneuver.

"He's going to snag us," the lieutenant told him in an oddly controlled tone of voice.

"He can try," Gummer replied with equal calm. "But he won't succeed….for long." They made the first leg of the three point turn. El Blanco surfaced again, in front of them. They backed up. The chauffer cut the wheel hard and pulled forward. Not fooled, the graboid was waiting. His tri-part tentacles lashed out, hooking onto something underneath the chassis, just below the front passenger door.

Grabbing the silver tube-like device that rested between them, Gummer threw the switch again, and said, "Open the door."

Then answer wasn't long in coming. "No offense there big guy, but I'm the first thing he'll hook onto when the door opens."

"This will give him second thoughts," he told her brandishing the tube, so she complied, unconsciously cringing back against him when the thick, rope like tentacles writhed in plain view just beneath her. Burt threw himself, literally, across her lap and lunged toward the tentacles like a spear fisherman about to take on an attacking shark. Without thinking about it, Brandenberg grabbed his holster belt with both fists, trying to keep him from falling out. As lanky as he was, Burt turned out to be heavy, and she grunted with the effort of hanging on.

Head way, Burt plunged the tines into ascending tentacles. For the second time that day, the graboid experienced an excruciating jolt of voltage. The tentacles flew off the chassis, recoiled into El Blanco's mouth, and the beast plunged below the arid surface of the desert.

Getting Burt back into the cab was a bit more difficult since he had his one good hand occupied with the device, and the other one bound up and essentially useless. Brandenberg looked down at the guy unceremoniously sprawled across her lap, and laughed.

Hearing the seemingly malevolent chuckle, Burt struggled all the more to regain his seat, and would have pitched headlong outside if she hadn't thought to close the door right away. With great effort, he finally got himself back into place, and sighed with relief, both at being away from the graboid and off of her.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

The meeting at the ambulances was a jubilant one. The Bixby F.D. guys were thumping each other on their broad backs, and smiling at their 'victory'. But that didn't last long, because their strong arms were needed to unload the Barron family and Ginny into the waiting rescue vehicles. The two white ambulances with neon red accents stood waiting with their crews beside them. The five men and three women nervously watched the shoulders of the road for any sign of movement. However, as the firefighters brought the makeshift stretchers over, the rescue crew became instantly mobilized. Even in the face of danger, they were efficient and clearly well-trained.

Within a matter of ten minutes, the four crash victims were loaded inside the rigs, one on each stretcher and one on each bench seat.

Brandenberg tried to make used of the cell phone to notify the local police of the one passenger who hadn't made it, but got no response. With one forefinger, she pointed at the tarped body of Marty Shepard and said to her crew, "Leave him up there. We'll transport him to the morgue ourselves."

That left only one 'problem' still needing to be dealt with.

As if preparing for the battle ahead, the entire regular population of the town of Perfection, all four of them, converged on the one remaining victim, who, as if sensing the swarm approaching, was backing slowly and cautiously away from the activity.

Realize some support was available for the odious chore ahead, Brandenberg simply raised one muscular arm, and pointed at the back of the ambulances. "There's a seat back there just waiting for you, Gummer," she stated benignly. But her expression was menacing, as if daring him to argue.

Tyler and the rest tensed. They gave each other knowing glances and surreptitiously maneuvered themselves behind their moody and occasionally belligerent buddy.

With a distinctly pugnacious set to his features, Burt shook his head. "Don't even think about it. I refuse to get on that ambulance and wind up carted around like a sack of potatoes."

Brandenberg replied evenly, "I'm not planning on trussing you up like a steer. There's a nice seat waiting for you. That's all I ask. Just go with them."

"Absolutely not!" Burt growled, drawing himself up to his full, rather intimidating height. "I know my rights! I can elect to refuse medical treatment if I so desire, and this is _precisely_ what I choose to do."

Jodi, either braver or crazier than the rest, reached out a slender hand to grasp his elbow. Since withdrawal would have just made him look silly or worse, afraid, he stood his ground, but didn't budge when she applied a little forward pressure. "Get real, Burt, there are no doctors here…zero, zip, zilch. No one can set bones or suture wounds. And I don't mind telling you that playing nursemaid isn't my forte. Please, just get up there, and let them do their thing."

Attempting to stare the small, petite Asian woman down, Burt remained a silent and immovable object. That was, at least until Rosalita showed up and amidst some inventive and colorful Spanish, told him just how ridiculous she thought he was being.

Finally, he told them both. "I am not going. I can drive myself to a doctor in Bixby." Then he closed his eyes as he remembered his truck, on the opposite end of the valley and not capable of driving him anywhere at the moment. Come to think of it, Tyler's mode of transportation was out of commission for a while too.

Jodi moved even closer, plunging right into Burt's considerable 'personal space'. Had she been another 12 inches taller, she would have gone nose to nose with the survivalist, but had to content herself with what she had to work with.

"Ooo, you're going _there_ again," she quietly chided Burt, making reference to what she occasionally referred to as his 'rigid place'. "Face it, your options are severely limited at the moment. Aren't you the only always reminding me to flexible when it really mattered. It really matters now, Burt!"

The lieutenant sat down heavily on the rear bumper of the closer ambulance, its doors still open and beckoning. "She's right you know. The scar, that'll heal," she said, vaguely waving one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Give you a great scar. Your groupies will love it, men and women alike."

Tyler noted a slight upturning of Gummer's mustache, but he still remained mute.

"On the other hand," Brandenberg continued, sounding slightly more irritated with each passing second, "That bone won't set properly by magic, and you darn well know it. Now, I know you don't want to wind up crippled. And you sure as heck aren't gonna like it when the docs tell you, weeks or months from now, that they'll have to rebreak it in order to set the bones properly."

Burt slumped. Then, grudgingly, he threw his up in the classic prisoner position. "I surrender," he growled. "But if those butchers maim me it will be on all your heads!"

"Oh brother!" Nancy intoned under her breath.

Drawing himself up to his full height, the survivalist limped toward the ambulance as if he were shackled hand and foot. When the lieutenant offered him a hand up by the side door, he shrugged her off, and pulled himself inside.

Brandenberg loudly blew air out through pursed lips, shut the twin doors, and banged on them to let the driver know the rig was secure.

As she passed the remaining residents of Perfection already piling into Rosalita's truck, they heard her mutter, "Bite me if that man isn't a royal pain in my posterior!" As if it suddenly occurred to her there was one thing left undone, she faced them. "I'll use the chief's car to bring him back once the hospital kicks him out, provided they don't kill him first." That said, she waved a farewell, and jumped back into the pumper.

Nighttime creatures were scurrying about in the dirt and buzzing nocturnal insects were banging against the windows of Chang's bright lit market by the time the group heard a truck pull up. Quickly, Jodi moved the dinner dishes to a far counter. The others, having enjoyed one of Nancy's gourmet delights, sat back and waited. Few cars were about at night in Perfection Valley. That meant one thing.

The white and red Chevy Suburban parked right by the door. The 'Viking', sans turnout gear, strode in and held the door open. Soon, Lieutenant Brandenberg, came through with a bag in hand. She was followed by two of the other firefighters from her crew. Suspended between them was Burt Gummer. They half walked, half dragged him toward a chair and rather unceremoniously plopped him down, then quickly parted as Brandenberg moved to the table.

Tyler looked at Burt. In fact, they all did. Eyes glazed, the survivalist was weaving slightly from side to side like a drunk. Then his chin dipped to his chest, and he remained that way for a few seconds.

"What'd you do-?" Nancy asked. "-take him out to party before bringing him home?"

Brandenberg grinned wickedly, revealing a mouthful of straight, white teeth. "Well, since he drove the doctors to drink, I figured we'd return the favor."

At that precise moment, Burt keeled over, face toward the table. Only the quick hands of the lieutenant snagging a fistful of his shirt and vest kept him from adding a matching shiner to the one he already sported. She yanked back and held him that way for a few seconds. But he was almost totally limp, and keeled over against her side.

"You're pathetic," she informed him. The only response she got was an incoherent grunt.

Exhaling a long-suffering sigh, she parked a brown paper bag on the table and opened it with her one free hand.

"Sorry it took so long. We would have been back sooner, but let me put it this way. There are some people who make good patients, and some that don't. Gummer definitely fits in the latter category. It took a couple of nurses just to start an IV going. The only reason they succeeded was because one of the nurses distracted him long enough for them to get the needle in. Then he spent so much time arguing over what was best for him that the doctor eventually 'spiked' his IV when he wasn't looking. Unfortunately, they went a bit overboard on the sedation, don't'cha think?"

"I'll say," Tyler muttered. "Remind me not to back-talk the doctors next time I need help."

The lieutenant rewarded him with a lopsided grin, but grew serious again.

"Better this way, you know. They got a lot more done. Cleaned the wound, sutured it up after all, bandaged the ankle. Took X-rays of the wrist, back, neck, CT of the head, the works. All negative by the way, with the exception of the obvious." She gently lifted the wrist and forearm tightly wrapped in a pristine white cast, then set it down across his lap.

She drew a deep breath before continuing. "There are some things I'll need to tell you before I go. First are the meds…" She fished them out of the bag, and placed the upright plastic container on the wood table with a loud slap. "These are for pain, which we know he won't take. Two, this is a hospital discharge form. It has the usual stuff on it, diagnosis, follow-up instructions. He needs to go back to get the stitches out in a week. Here are some antibiotics. Instructions are on the label. The cast comes off in three months, roughly, but, knowing him, he'll have chewed it off long before then. Last, he'll need at least 12 hours to sleep off the sedative, and a couple of days off that ankle. If he won't comply, my suggestion is four point restraints. You holler and I'll have them here in a heartbeat."

"Is that legal," Nancy asked, fighting to hide a smile.

The lieutenant fixed those incredibly turquoise orbs on her, then said with an ingenuous tone. "Out here in the middle of nowhere, nobody will ever know."

With a wicked grin, she added, "He's all yours. You just tell me where you want him."

Tyler looked at Jodi who shrugged. They had a couple of ways to solve this dilemma. They could play odds and evens, or rock, paper, scissors, or even fetch a card deck for "high card", and the loser would have to keep him overnight. Taking him home wasn't an option, if only because they didn't know the code to get inside the bunker.

"Jodi?"

"Forget it, I meant what I said. I'm no nurse."

"Rosalita?"

"Don't even think about it. You drag him into my home and he doesn't come out…what would the neighbors think?"

Tyler grimaced at her. He was just about to remind her that there were less than fifteen people in the entire valley and none lived anywhere near her ranch, when Jodi blurted out, "Hey, I have a suggestion. Why not put him in Nancy's house."

"Why my house," the blond woman asked in surprise. She wouldn't have refused of course. It wasn't in her nature, even if the houseguest would be Burt.

"Because you have that spare room. Mindy's."

"Well-," Nancy began.

Tyler waved it off. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why?" she asked, clearly puzzled.

"Because I've seen Mindy's bedroom. All those stuffed animals, and Brad Pitt posters. He'll wake up and think he's died and gone to hell. I wouldn't inflict that on the poor guy!"

"That's fine with me," she retorted, flicking her fingers as if to shoo off a fly. "Since you're an authority on what Burt needs, I suggest you bring him back to your place."

Tyler cringed. "Why do I get the feeling you all had this planned."

"Because we did," Jodi said, smiling from ear to ear.

"Okay, okay," Tyler replied throwing his hands up. "Branden - hey, do you even have a first name or did you lose it somewhere along the way?"

The lieutenant stared at him, one eyebrow arched. "It's Dani."

"Danny?"

"D-A-N-I, short for Danielle."

"Dani, your happy hour is here, I'll take him off your hands. Just get someone to give me a hand and I'll take him back to the garage. I've got a bed in there. I can take the couch for now."

"Hallelujah! Let's get this show on the road. Erikkson will help you, and I'll fetch his guns. You can stow them somewhere safe." Despite the tough talk, she gently shifted Burt's head from where it lay against her side. "Come on big boy, time to get going." Burt didn't stir. She gestured for assistance from the firefighter standing near the door. "He's all yours," she told Tyler, as the burly Erikkson began to pull Burt from his seat.

With one arm draped over Reed's broad muscular shoulders, and the other draped over Erikkson's equally impressive upper torso, they got Burt standing and on his way, half dragging him toward the garage across the road.

"Hey, Nancy," Jodi said, not long after the fire department vehicle and Rosalita had departed for home. She was beside the counter, and leaning against it, looking completely relaxed.

"Yes?"

"You still been doing all those wonderfully creative things on the GalleryPhoto program?"

Giving her a "what the heck are you driving at" look, Nancy hesitantly said, "Sure. I still have a lot to learn but I'm enjoying it. Why?"

Reaching behind her, Jodi pulled out a small silver device not much bigger than an ice cream stick. "Digital. My sister sent it for my birthday."

"So?"

Jodi delivered a half smile before continuing. "So, when you were all wondering where to put Burt for tonight, I snapped off a quick shot."

"Really!" Nancy leaned forward, "And what, pray tell, did you photograph."

The smile widened. "You know when Brandenberg was holding Burt by the scruff of the neck and he fell against her."

"Yeah," the blond said, a grin spreading across her own lips.

"Well, I was thinking that, with the magic of GalleryPhoto and a scanner, we could come up with a cover story, complete with a candid photo, for the "National Instigator"…if you get my drift."

More a statement than a question, Nancy said, "You mean substitute the real photos for one we doctor up?"

"And I think that you should make sure it's on the newspaper rack right there beside the Bixby Bugle when we get our resident hero in here tomorrow morning for breakfast. What do you think?"

"Do the words 'evil genius' mean anything to you?" Not waiting for a response, she added, "You just make sure you get me up on time tp see this, because I'm going to be up for hours working with it."

With a laugh of unadulterated glee, Nancy returned home to start on her project. She could envision it now, the headline, in bold letters, reading, "Survivalist Agrees to Terms of Surrender!"


End file.
